Blindsided
by ChaosKirin
Summary: Mike, Peter, Davy, and Micky are thrown into a bit of chaos when an injury leaves Micky blind. As they struggle to pay their bills, Mike finds what might be the answer to their prayers - a band competition with a sizable top prize. The Monkees just need to pull themselves together so that they have a chance at winning.
1. Three Strikes

Despairingly, Michael stared down at the four ticket stubs in his hand.

"All I'm sayin'," he grumbled, "is that if I'd known they were gonna pay us with baseball tickets, I woulda said 'no deal!' We shoulda sold these."

Micky skipped down the stone steps, looking back happily as he shoveled popcorn into his face. Completely unfazed by Michael's grousing, he shuffled into their designated seating area, which just so happened to be awfully close to the action. "These are _amazing_ tickets, Mike," said the curly-haired young man. When he smiled, Michael's anger dissipated almost immediately. Micky's expression was always unintentionally goofy, but it sure did wonders to dispel any animosity that cropped up in their household.

Sighing, Mike rolled his eyes. Somehow along the line, the other guys designated him as the "leader," though he never figured out exactly how that occurred. It couldn't have been his presence. Tall, gangly and awkward, Mike never thought of himself as someone who should ever be put in charge of anything, let along a band comprised of four fledgeling musicians. Still, during moments like these, when his friends were all acting like children, he understood the power his conservative reservation could have over people. And, as a leader, sometimes, he had to concede.

"Fine, fine," he drawled. "Look— Mick, that ain't your seat. Move down some. Davy and Peter've gotta sit down here, too!"

Apparently ignoring Michael, Micky stared into the red and white-striped popcorn box for a second, before upending it and letting the remaining kernels spill into his mouth.

He then proceeded to spit them at Michael.

His temper unraveling, Mike finally grabbed Micky by the shoulders and shoved him down into one of the seats. "Now you stay put, or else I'll find a way to seatbelt you in."

As Micky opened his mouth to argue, another of their quartet bounded down the stairs. The youngest of them all, Davy was almost as full of energy as Micky, but he seemed to be able to use it with much more discretion. Possibly, this was due to his upbringing in England, although that didn't stop him from occasionally being just as inappropriate as Micky. "He still goin' on about those tickets?" Davy asked, plopping down next to Micky.

"Oh, we'll still be hearing it ten years from now," Micky said. "Maybe twenty, if we're _very_ unfortunate."

"I'm just tryin' to look out for you guys," Mike said, feeling slightly stung by it all. Going to a baseball game cost a lot of money, not just in the form of the provided tickets. There was gas, concessions, and the inevitable souvenir with which Micky would run off, leaving one of the others to pay for it.

Davy draped his arm over Mike's shoulders, which looked completely absurd, considering the extreme difference in their height. There was a reason the English boy's nickname was 'Tiny.' "It'll be all right, Mike. We got another gig lined up later this week. We'll be able t'pay the rent."

Finally, Mike allowed a smile. A baseball game would be pretty fun, after all. "Hey, if I don't complain some, you'd think somethin' was wrong with me. Now where's Peter?"

Davy turned around in his seat, squinting in the direction he'd come into the stadium proper. After a moment, he pointed, then raised his hand and waved. Mike turned around, too, quickly locating the blond-haired boy, whose appeared wholly confused until he spotted Davy waving. With a bright smile, he traversed the maze of milling fans, down the steps, and to his seat. "There was a line," he explained. "So I stood in it. It turned out, it was for the ladies' room."

No one spoke for a moment, then Micky asked, "Why would you just stand in some random line?"

"There were girls in it?" Peter replied meekly. He pouted, then said, "Why would there be women at a baseball game, anyway?"

Mike absently gestured at the assembled thousands of people, many of which were female. "I dunno. Who doesn't like a good baseball game?"

"You, for one," Davy chuckled, settling back in his seat, as Peter got to his. "We almost didn't come, y'know. I think I heard you grumbling about rent and how we couldn't afford fun in your sleep last night."

Despite the sun beating down on them, Michael was sure they could all see his face turning a little red. He couldn't think of a way to respond; thankfully, while he was thinking up an answer that didn't sound too stupid, Micky interjected.

"Aw, that? It's called 'Somniloquy.'" When the others looked at him, he smiled. "Yeah, it's a cool word, huh? Anyway, talking in your sleep doesn't necessarily reflect how you really feel. You like to have fun, don'tcha, Mike?"

Mike nodded. He also offered Micky an almost imperceptible, grateful smile.

"Look," Micky continued. "If we all believed what happened in our dreams— Well, let's just say my dreams are full of monsters and crazy doomsday scenarios and endless, _endless_ gorgeous women. And we all know that our house isn't full of any of those things."

"Too bad," Davy muttered. "About the women, I mean. We don't need Godzilla in our bathtub or nothin'."

"I'm just tryin' to look out for you guys, is all," Mike said, finally finding his voice. "Look, let's all agree that I'll stop makin' a fuss about the game if we all promise to not accept payment in baseball tickets anymore." The four boys looked amongst each other, all of them eventually nodding at the terms of the agreement. "All right, then," Mike said. "Put your hands in."

They stacked their hands atop one another, and Mike said, "No more accepting goods as payment. Cash or nothing. That way, we can decide what to do with it, and sometimes, that might just include a baseball game."

The little addition to the agreement drew a smile from the others, and eventually, Mike allowed himself a smile, too. "It's settled. Now, I made a promise and I intend to keep it. Let's watch ourselves a game."

"There's just one problem," Peter said, pulling a small program out of his pocket. He opened it up, and Michael leaned over Micky to take a look at it.

"Problem?"

Peter nodded. "I don't know whether to root for the Angels or the White Sox."

Mike shrugged. "I guess whoever you personally like— "

"Nah, you gotta root for the Angels! It's our home team, mate!" Davy interrupted "Gotta show some home team spirit!" Proud of himself, he sat back in his chair, folding his arms behind his head and grinning.

But Michael just shook his head. "Look, the only one here who's got a home team playin' is Micky. Me? I'm from Texas. Peter's from … well, everywhere, but let's just say Connecticut for argument's sake. And Davy, you're from England."

As the smile vanished from Davy's face, Micky pointed around them, at the other fans nearby. They were all wearing Angels shirts and hats. "Well, I'm rooting for the Angels, on account of I don't want to be murdered."

As much as Michael hated to admit it sometimes, given Micky's sometimes flighty personality, the curly-haired brunet often made a good point. Not only would they lessen the enjoyment of the other fans nearby, but they could very well cause a fight to break out if they cheered for the wrong team. It shouldn't have really taken any thought; still, Mike tended to solve his problems based on personal logic, where Micky took things such as environmental concerns into account. Their environment, in this case, consisted of their fellow fans, who could be either hostile or friendly depending on one single, seemingly insignificant choice. "Angels it is, then," Mike said.

As the players took the field, Michael allowed the slightly infectious excitement to claim him. He wasn't used to letting his worries go, since there always seemed to be something to worry about. They were still bleeding funds and had no way to pay their rent, the Monkeemobile badly needed an oil change, and the fridge remained almost bare. But how often could they get together like this and just be boys? He kept that thought in mind as the Angels scored their first runs, and as the White Sox failed over and over to catch up to them.

Picking a team wasn't exactly the most important choice in the universe, but the decision just felt _good._ It was, after all, far easier to cheer for a winning team than a losing one, and certainly circumvented any disappointment that may have tried to ruin their fun. Michael actually found himself standing up and cheering at times.

"Does anyone actually know _anything_ about this sport?" Davy asked, as the Angels took the field again. "I mean, I know you gotta hit the ball and run around the bases…"

Mike gestured vaguely to the field. "I guess that's about it, really. You got three outs per team, then you switch back n' forth." Not particularly eloquent, he thought to himself, as he squinted at the field.

Shyly, Peter remarked, "And three strikes per batter. Or four balls."

Micky giggled inappropriately, and Mike cuffed him upside the head. "Cut it out. This is basic stuff y'oughtta know! I can see Davy askin' questions, but you?"

Micky shoved Mike away. "Aw, stop. I know baseball. But Peter just said— "

"That's about all you need to know about baseball, Davy," Mike said, smirking and covering Micky's mouth with his hand.

It didn't take long for Micky to wiggle free, though, no matter how much Mike tried to prevent it. Thankfully, it took just long enough that Micky's short attention span shifted gears to something else. Standing, he said, "It's the fifth quarter! Time for snacks. Who wants somethin'?"

"Baseball hasn't got 'quarters,' Micky," Mike sighed. "It's got innings."

"Yeah, but 'inning' is a silly word. It doesn't mean anything."

"Look, you can't have nine _quarters._ There's more than four of 'em," Mike said. "Weren't we done with the baseball lesson?"

Micky scrunched up his face. "Well, that's dumb. How about 'fifth period'?" He turned his back to the field, leaning on the fence. "Who came up with the word 'inning,' anyway? What, they couldn't fit the description of what happens out there into an existing word? How about 'span?' or 'block?' And you know, while we're at it, why are they called 'dugouts?'"

"Would you cut it out already? I don't always know why things're the way they are. They just are! Now sit down, we can't afford more snacks!"

Out of the four of them, it was Michael who was the calmest. Like anyone, he shouted and screamed and carried on when he had to, but it was usually for a reason. The others told him that there was a certain _tone_ he used in conjunction with his shouting when he was absolutely, deadly serious - and they knew there could be no arguing with him at that point. By their dejected faces, it appeared that he'd made use of that tone, and summarily ruined their experience at the game.

Even though he promised he wouldn't.

He exhaled slowly, rubbing his temple. "Look, guys, we'll… We'll get summore snacks if you wanna, but just keep in mind that the stuff here's expensive. We could go to the grocery store and get enough food to feed all of us for the cost of one hot dog here."

After another moment of silence among them, during which the roar of the crowd almost became white noise, Micky smiled. "Hey, we'll just get one box of popcorn and split it. That should be okay, right?"

Davy and Peter both looked hopefully to Mike, who considered. It wouldn't set them back _too_ much. Feeling himself about to relent, he reiterated, "You know I'm just looking out for all of us."

The crowd roared again immediately after the _crack_ of a powerful hit reached their ears, but the boys, lost in their debate, really weren't paying attention. They could continue watching the game again after they sorted out this argument, hopefully with the smallest number of snacks possible.

Micky crossed his arms, shaking his head. "Mike— "

A second crack, not as sharp, reached Mike's ears.

Suddenly, Micky stumbled forward and fell heavily to the steps.

An inexplicable baseball fell next to him, bouncing a couple times, before Peter, leaving his seat, deftly caught it. He snuggled it into his shoulder, disappointing a couple crowd hopefuls who sought to take home the foul ball as a prize.

Unable to decide whether to direct his incredulity toward the apathetic people around him, or to the fact that Micky had apparently been struck by the speeding baseball, Michael knelt down next to the unconscious drummer. He couldn't figure out what to do with his arms in that moment - should he lift Micky into them, or just give his shoulder a tentative pat? In his moment of indecision, one arm started to turn Micky over, while the other nudged his arm. Neither action elicited a response.

"Oh, oh man, that can't be good," Davy muttered, settling next to Micky as well. "Micky? C'mon, Micky," he pleaded, as he helped flip the stricken young man onto his back.

Peter was the last to join them, continuing to clutch the baseball in his hands as his pale eyes glared frightfully at the gathered people; they were leaning over now, trying to get a good look at the unconscious boy on the stadium steps. Unable to help it, Mike leaned protectively over Micky, cradling him close, as Peter confirmed everyone's fear: "It hit him, Mike. Right in the back of the head."


	2. Cain't, Cain't, Cain't

At first, awareness came in spurts, never lasting more than a few confusing seconds. Micky could only really describe it as a sort of _lost_ feeling, like he'd fallen into a place where the laws of physics didn't apply to him. And in those seconds, his thoughts would scatter in so many different directions, that by the time he caught up with all of them, he'd lapsed back into unconsciousness. Every time this happened, he remembered his last period of awareness, and found himself almost striving to move backward, where he knew there would be comfort.

He longed for blackness at one point, and couldn't even find that.

But _healing_ eventually found him, despite the continued wrongness of the situation. This time, it wasn't just some lofty, unreachable snippet of half-consciousness - Micky was actually awake.

He stirred, and the ringing in his ears resolved into voices.

His mind still searched for that comfortable blackness, though, almost desperately. Micky squirmed, feeling his surroundings with a pained sense of touch as he stared in the direction of those voices, certain that there should at least be darkness where his eyes pointed. Everything else screamed to him that he was in a bed, surrounded by at least a couple people, their quiet voices rattling through his skull - but he couldn't confirm that with his eyes.

"Micky?" Mike paused. "Hey, I think 'e's wakin' up. Better go get the doctor."

"Yeah," Davy agreed. Footsteps - loud, high-pitched clicks on a tile floor - quickly retreated from the room, and Micky's brain told him that it must have been Davy who went, and not Mike.

Someone sat next to him, so Micky turned his head. Still, he searched for the darkness, even as he felt the mild breeze caused by someone waving their hand in front of his face. That same someone ran thin fingers over his hand before taking it and cradling it gently. Warmly. "Mick?" Peter asked.

Making sure his eyes were open, he blinked again, then turned away from Peter. Carefully, so as not to alarm anyone, Micky asked, "Guys, are the lights on?"

Someone else sat next to him on the bed. Too heavy to be Davy; besides, he hadn't heard the steady _click click_ of those boots returning. "Mike?" Micky asked, looking directly where he'd felt the motion. "Izzat you?"

No one said it at first, but they all kind of figured it out. Peter and Mike were just waiting for Micky to confirm it. "Guys, I can't see."

Peter was still holding his hand, and gave it a squeeze. "…maybe your brain just has to catch up with you being awake?"

"Naw, that ain't it," Mike said. "Somethin's not right."

Micky found that he could hear every odd quirk of Mike's accent, even better than he could before. Moreover, he could better distinguish the more subtle difference between his own voice and Peter's, which marked the blond from being from the Eastern side of the country. It was strange, as if someone had flipped a switch in his mind that made him notice such oddities. Honestly, Micky hadn't paid much attention before - he knew Mike had a distinct Southern drawl - but now, he felt that if someone put one hundred Texans in a room, all with the exact same timbre to their voice, he'd be able to pick out the little nuances that made Mike just a little bit different from everyone else. The same went for Peter.

"…Huh," Micky said.

The clicky-heeled boots returned, followed by the softer tromp of another, unidentified person. Micky imagined that the first was Davy, since his memory for sound seemed much more acute than it was before.

Annoyed by the lack of anything in his vision, he rubbed at one eye, trying to coax the sight back to it. Sliding his hand out of Peter's, he rubbed at the other one, but got the same result for both - nothing.

"Doc," Mike said. "I don't think he can see."

Something clicked directly in front of Micky. He felt a stab of anxiety as he reached around for Peter again, just to have some contact with someone who still had use of their eyes. As he flailed, the other boy managed to catch his hand, holding it tightly. "Don't worry, Mick, the doctor's just shining a light into your eyes.

"You see anything?" the unfamiliar voice of the doctor asked.

Micky shook his head.

"Wait, what?" Davy snapped. "What'cha mean you can't see? What's wrong?"

Micky could detect the British voice nearing him as it spoke, and automatically turned his head toward it.

"Ooh, that's a little creepy," Davy observed.

"Well, tell me this. How's your head feel?" the doctor asked.

Micky reached up to rub the painful spot on the back of his head. The moment his fingers touched it, he winced, his hand automatically pulling away. "Got a headache. I'm a little confused…" He wiggled again, uncomfortable, as if the light sheets with which he was covered were invading his space. They seemed too close, but he couldn't push them away.

"Is it okay if I talk in front of your friends, Mister Dolenz?" the doctor asked.

"Micky. Yeah, that's fine. They oughta know."

"You took quite a hit to the back of the head," the doctor continued. "Most of the damage isn't too severe, but you've got a little crack back there."

"Not severe!" Mike scoffed. He shifted on the bed, probably to look at the doctor. "He cain't see!"

Cain't. Cain't. Micky never really thought about how Mike said 'can't' before. He decided that he liked it.

Unshaken, the doctor continued. "There are always complications from a brain injury. In this case, the occipital lobe - that's the back - is most strongly affected. That's the part that controls sight, and it was pretty badly injured. Micky, do you understand?"

He didn't say anything as the weight that was Mike stood up. Footsteps, more earthy this time, if footsteps could be described in such a manner, shuffled across the floor and away. Automatically, Micky tried to judge _where,_ but his mind raced with a whole swarm of unanswered questions and distracted him before he could figure out if his friend was still there. Unable to help it, he said, "Mike, don't leave." Holding more tightly onto Peter's hand so that the other boy couldn't let go, he added, "Davy?"

"We're all here," Davy said. Micky detected a smile in his voice, which was marginally reassuring. As much as he tried not to let it get to him, the doctor's confirmation that the injury caused this blindness scared him.

"I can't even remember what happened," Micky muttered.

"That's normal," the doctor said. "Injuries like this cause short term memory loss around the time of the accident. You've woken up a couple times before this. You weren't cognizant. Do you remember?"

Micky shook his head. He only had the barest recollections of feeling that something wasn't right, but he couldn't remember himself actually being awake.

"You probably won't remember being injured. Don't strain yourself trying to recall it. It's very possible that the memory no longer exists."

He could feel himself starting to whimper, a thickness building in his throat and a painful tension working its way up to his eyes. "Ah, hey," he said quickly, forcing the tears away. "Give me some good news, Doc. My sight's going to come back, right?"

The tiny pause that followed the question was agonizing.

"There's a good chance that this will resolve."

"That's all you can give us?" Davy questioned. "A 'good chance?' I mean, is 'good' fifty percent? Seventy?"

Micky desperately wished that he could see the doctor's face, because if he could see it, he could judge the words as either false hope or cautious optimism. He always felt that his assessment of a person's character was rock-solid, but a lot of it depended on subtle visual cues, like blinking, lip-biting, leaning away - all things he couldn't detect without his eyes. He blinked them again, balling his free hand into a fist until his fingernails dug into his palms with the slightest sensation of pain. Not a dream, then.

He relied so much on his vision. Even at the drums, his eyes were always moving, always focusing on which to play next. He remembered people by sight, even if he couldn't always come up with their names, and never forgot a face. Colors! He loved colors. He enjoyed paintings, even if they were abstract, because he liked seeing how things in his world interacted with other things. To not have that, to abandon it all to a 'good chance,' made him feel hollow.

More tenderly than before, the doctor replied, "The brain is so complex. So different than anything else in the body. Everyone reacts differently to head trauma… Other people have fully recovered, and others haven't. It might take days for your sight to come back. Or weeks. Years. Or it might never. What I can tell you now is that there is a _good chance_ that it will."

No one said anything, and eventually, Micky heard the scuff of the doctor's shoes across the floor, retreating this time. Left alone with his friends, he continued to sit in silence, trying to wrap his head around the fact that he might never see again. He couldn't, though, because to think about that meant that he'd have to think of a contingency plan - what he'd have to do with his life if his eyes didn't start working. Just the thought of a future where he had to plan for a worst-case scenario set him on the edge of panic.

Push it aside, Micky. Don't let 'em see you crying.

Smiling, he allowed a chuckle, looking toward where he believed they were all sitting, one at a time.

"What's funny?" Davy asked, a hint of amusement in the question.

"Oh, just that you guys are gonna have to wait on me 'til my eyes get better." Before anyone could remind him that they might not, he added, "And they will, by the way. I mean, c'mon, you can't keep George Michael Dolenz down. I'll be back to normal in no time." He forced a wider smile, taking a little comfort in the fact that he was very good at making himself look sincere. It was a trait the others didn't share - Michael failed miserably at faking a smile, and Davy had to be in the right mood for it. Peter wore his heart on his sleeve, and his emotions plain on his face, no matter the situation. Micky wished he could see them now and judge their faces, although maybe it was better that he couldn't. If they looked uncertain, he might not be able to continue on with his false optimism. "Hand and foot, guys. I mean it. Only the best for your injured comrade."

He heard Mike grunt. "Hey. Just focus on getting yourself out of the hospital first, huh? Then we'll talk about you own personal butler service."

"I don't want a personal butler service," Micky said. "I want you guys."

"I think he means us, Mick," Peter whispered.

"He couldn't afford us," Davy joked. "Not after his hospital bills, anyway."

Oh. Right.

Micky's face fell again, the realization of what he'd have to pay back smacking into him harder than the revelation of his blindness had. He was a struggling musician who could barely afford a monthly rent payment and food, let alone medical expenses. "Man, can't believe I have to pay for something I don't even remember happening," he mumbled, bowing his head.

"Sorry, Micky, I was just jokin'…" Davy said softly.

"Nah, it's okay," he replied, unable to keep the worry out of his voice. "It's okay! Really, I'll find a way. Just… _Someone_ tell me what happened? I know! I was defending some chick's honor, and her angry boyfriend took a swing at me, right? But not before I clobbered him. I'm a hero."

"Nothin' so exciting," Mike drawled. "You were standin' against the guard rail and got clobbered by a foul ball."

Confused, Micky tried to recall … "Were we… At a baseball game?" He remembered getting the tickets, but he couldn't remember actually getting to the stadium to see it. "Geez, the doctor wasn't kidding about that memory loss, was he?"

"You don't remember even being there?" Davy asked.

Micky shook his head. He'd been told not to strain to remember, but he couldn't help wondering why he couldn't picture the game at all. "Well, I remember talking about it? Yeah, we were getting ready to go. It was, uh. Morning, I think? But that's even fuzzy, like maybe I dreamed it. Whoa, you're saying we were there?"

"Y'spit popcorn kernels at me," Mike said flatly. "Fer the record, don't do that again."

In a way, Micky felt exposed by the fact that others had been privy to a part of his life that not even he could recall. He had more questions, but they'd only reveal the helpless trepidation he felt toward the whole situation. If he told himself enough times that he could do this, surely he'd stop being so concerned by it all. Thousands and thousands of people lived with blindness, so even if his sight never returned, he'd be okay somehow. So he didn't have to ask those questions!

"You okay?" Peter asked quietly, after Micky didn't respond for awhile.

Too much to process.

He snuggled down in the sheets. Sliding across them felt like fire, as if every single thread had a tiny little white-hot blade on it. Still holding onto Peter's hand, he turned on his side and lay his head on the pillow, which brought a fresh sting to the back of his head. After a moment, it became a dull discomfort, which would hardly prevent him from sleeping, given how tired he suddenly felt. "Are you guys gonna be here when I wake up?"

Mike stood up. For a moment, Micky was afraid that he was going to leave without saying anything, but then he felt fingers close around his other hand. "We all know the visitin' hours, Mick," he said. "And we plan to ignore them the best way we know how."

His smile came easily as he closed his eyes. It wouldn't be so bad, really, he convinced himself. The other guys would be there for him, so he could get used to this as slowly as he needed to. They'd take care of him. Maybe it would even be a little fun, with them running around at his beck and call. Those thoughts of using his friends in such a way gave rise to the tiniest feelings of guilt, but Micky quickly squelched them. After all, he had to derive some joy out of his blindness.

And they'd be glad to oblige, he thought, as a sudden exhaustion drew him into sleep.


	3. Homeward

It was no secret that the other boys felt bad about what happened to Micky. Mike said that Micky fed off the attention he was getting, and it was only making things worse - someone should give him the reality rundown of the situation, after all. Then, he'd turn around and say nothing himself, and tell Davy and Peter later that he just felt too bad about what happened to give Micky the bad news.

Peter often wondered what this "bad news" was, since Micky had such a good chance of getting better. He couldn't wonder about the what-ifs, simply because he was naturally prone to focusing on whatever positive he could grasp. If the doctor said Micky would probably get better, then he had to believe that Micky would get better. To consider the alternative was too heartbreaking.

Their friend had to stay in the hospital for a while, although the injury wasn't so bad as to require surgery. There was a 'procedure' done, which Peter didn't really understand, and on that day, they were all there to greet him when he woke up. After that, they all took shifts to make sure that during visiting hours, someone was always there with him, because he liked to talk, and when he talked at the nurses, it interfered with their work. One day, Mike even brought in a stuffed Monkey's paw, and told Micky he ought to wish that he couldn't talk again, for the sake of the hospital staff.

Micky asked why he shouldn't just wish he could see again.

It was the only hint that something was wrong. Micky seemed so upbeat, that he never let the blindness get to him when he was in the hospital, but even Peter couldn't ignore the slight stung feeling in the curly-haired drummer's voice on that day. After a silence fell over the room for a few seconds longer than it should have, Micky cheerfully started talking about the finer points of birch trees and slingshots, and the unease ended.

On the day he came home, all three of the other boys were there to "help," which the nursing staff found slightly obnoxious.

"Look, we only need one person to push a wheelchair, and— "

"Well how d'you expect us to pick?" Davy asked. He put his hands on his hips, letting go of the handles on Micky's wheelchair, which Peter took, instead.

" —And an orderly should be doing that! Not some long-haired kids!"

"The hair does tend to get in the way of wheelchair-pushing," Mike droned, elbowing Peter out of the way. In the span of five minutes, they managed to reach the door of Micky's room.

"You should choose fingers for it," Micky said, turning around. He stared upward, eyes fixed at a point between Mike and Peter. Peter hated that they looked so blank and lifeless lately, considering that it used to be a lot different. Anyone could, at one point, look into Micky's eyes and see their intelligence and mischief. Now they were slightly crossed, their pupils blown and sightless. They didn't move, didn't search like they always had before, betraying Micky's hyperactive state of being and instinctive need to see everything.

"Right, choose fingers. Everyone stick out your hand."

Everyone did. Including Micky, and a couple seconds later, Micky won.

"Mick," Mike said. "How're you gonna push your own wheelchair?"

"Hadn't thought that far ahead," he replied. "Come to think of it, why do I even need a wheelchair? It's not as if my legs are broken."

"It's just how we do things here," the nurse said, holding her hands out perpendicular to the ground. After each words, she waved them, as if punctuating her statements. "We wheel you to the door, then you leave. Don't argue."

"Doesn't seem very nice," Peter said, pouting. "You oughtta be nice."

"Oh, for the love of— I'll push it!" the nurse said, finally shoving her way between Michael and Peter. She didn't give them a chance to say anything else before she was pushing Micky away from the room, and at a rapid clip down the hallway.

Peter, Mike, and Davy had to jog just to keep up with her as Micky yelled, "HELP! I'm being kidnapped by a beautiful woman!"

"How d'you know she's beautiful?" Davy called back.

"She's a woman!" Micky replied, paused, and added, "Never mind, guys, I'm okay, with it."

As Mike ran ahead to get the car, Davy kept Micky occupied with various bits and pieces of conversation. Did they have any gigs? Yes. Had Babbitt fixed the sink yet? No. A few paces back, Peter attempted to lose himself in thought, but this was made especially difficult by the fact that critical thinking often came reluctantly to the poor blond-haired boy. He wasn't stupid, but he also wasn't necessarily booksmart like Micky, or naturally witty like Michael, either. To arrive at any conclusion took some thought and dedication, and the reasoning for an unease that had been plaguing Peter for several days now kept eluding him.

Sometimes, Davy would tell him he had the gift of empathy. When Peter asked what that meant, his short friend shrugged and said that it involved being very good at feeling. Reading emotion. Davy went on to say that if anyone needed cheering up or comforting, Peter would be there in a heartbeat, without even being asked. As true as those statements seemed at the time, Peter's empathic gift was failing him now, because he couldn't tell if some sort of problem existed, or if worry simply dominated his thoughts at the moment.

When Michael pulled up in the Monkeemobile, the nurse's shoulders relaxed. As the other guys helped Micky up and into the front passenger seat, Peter took her hand. She looked at him, eyes hard and tired.

"Just wanted to thank you for taking care of him," Peter said. "And, you know. Being so good to all of us. We're like brothers, you know? I don't know what we'd do if you hadn't been around."

Davy grabbed him by the sleeve and gave a tug. "C'mon, Peter. Stop hittin' on the hospital staff and get in the car. We gotta get Micky home."

The nurse smiled at him, and he returned the expression while allowing Davy to drag him away. As they climbed into the back seat, the nurse continued to smile, even as she turned around and headed back inside.

"You get her number?" Davy asked.

Mike started driving off, and Micky flipped around to look into the back seat, even if his eyes were focused on neither of them. "Whose number?"

"Oh, that nurse's," Davy replied.

"Cute?" Micky asked. "She sounded cute."

"How do you _sound cute?_" Davy asked. "S'like saying something _feels_ yellow."

"I dunno, she just did. I think I have super hearing powers now."

"Hey," Peter interrupted, pouting. "I was just thanking her for taking care of you. She seemed upset." And, he thought to himself, maybe that's what was bothering him. That must have been it, since assuring her that her care meant something made him feel better.

"What— Super hearing powers? You must be joking," Davy went on.

Peter thought he might have seen Micky frown a bit.

"But it's true," the curly-haired young man said. "I'm hearing everything. I mean, I can tell who's walking around just by hearing their footsteps. And Mike's accent— "

"I don't got one," Mike said. "Y'all have one. I talk just fine."

Micky quieted, sighing. "So, Pete, was she cute?"

"I guess," Peter said. The unease was back, even though Micky offered him one of his patented too-wide smiles.

"All right. Way to go."

Since the hospital stood on the other side of the city, the drive home took a fairly long time. Halfway there, and in a gridlock on the expressway, Mike finally brought up the one thing that none of them spoke about since the first time Davy mentioned it. "Guys, this hospital bill is gonna be astronomical. We need a game plan."

"Hey," Micky said. "Don't worry about it, guys. Look, I've already been discussing it with my folks. We're gonna figure somethin' out. We can't worry about that _and_ the rent."

"Well, there's a few things I've been thinkin' about," Mike said. "And if we can alleviate some of the cost, well, we're your family, too, Mick. And I think it's our duty and privilege to help you out."

Davy and Peter muttered their agreement, and Micky, very quietly, replied, "Gosh, guys. I really don't know what to say."

As Mike slowed down so a couple cars could merge onto the freeway ahead of him, he reached out and patted Micky's shoulder. Peter noticed that Micky jumped a little, his head snapping to the left to look at Michael through sightless eyes. If Mike noticed, he didn't say anything about it, instead stating, "You don't have to say anything. Just let us take care of you for awhile."

Almost giddily, Micky replied, "I plan to."

—-

They situated Micky in the first floor bedroom with Davy. It seemed a bit more logical than making the poor guy navigate the stairs every time he wanted to go to or leave his room. At least on the first floor, he'd have access to the kitchen, bathroom, and most importantly, the television, without risking falling down a spiral staircase. Peter moved his things into the upstairs bedroom after talking things over with Davy. Despite the fact that they were all good friends, Davy's temper occasionally clashed with Michael's stubbornness, resulting in a whole lot of unpleasantness. Putting them in a bedroom together was just asking for trouble.

"So, this is the second floor," Peter said, tucking his fitted sheets under the corners of his mattress. He tried to stretch it up to the headboard, but it didn't seem to want to go.

"You've been up here before," Mike said. "And you've short-sheeted yourself. Here, you gotta turn it."

Peter stepped back, allowing Michael to arrange the sheet on the bed. "Sorry, Mike. Guess it makes sense that there's a certain way it goes."

"Eh, don't worry about it. There. Now you can do the rest, right?"

Peter nodded. As he decided which edge of his sheet was longer, Davy appeared at the door. "Okay, he's all situated, and he seems to want to stay in bed. Already had me bring 'im a glass of water and a magazine. Although, now that I think about it, I'm not _quite_ sure what he's gonna do with that magazine…"

Questioningly, Peter looked at Mike, who rolled his eyes. "The problem is, Micky's too opportunistic," was his answer.

As if on cue, a call of "Oh Daaaavy…" drifted up the stairs. Sighing, the short young man disappeared. Shrugging, Peter and Mike followed their friend down the stairs and into Micky's room.

"You guys really should just get me a bell or somethin', like in the cartoons," Micky said, holding up the magazine. "Davy, can you read this to me?"

In the course of the next few hours, as Davy read the articles in the magazine to Micky, both Mike and Peter brought him everything he asked for. Peter didn't particularly mind running to the store for ice cream, or checking Micky's drums to make sure they weren't infested with fleas. He didn't even really mind polishing Micky's shoes or taking over reading when Davy got tired of doing so. Michael, on the other hand, seemed not to appreciate the constant calls and summons that came from the first floor bedroom.

And they were fairly constant. Some things were genuinely necessary, such as food and water and the like. Other things… Well. Some of Micky's requests ranged from absurd to downright silly. Even so, Peter couldn't help thinking that if someone was blind, they should have all the attention they wanted.

When Micky finally fell asleep, Peter set the magazine on the nightstand, quietly sneaking out of the room and into the kitchen. Michael was making dinner, while Davy sat with his head down on the table. Admittedly, Peter felt a wave of tiredness, although not so much that he could pass up the opportunity to grab a sandwich off the tray Mike was preparing.

"He's sleeping," Peter said.

"Please don't wake 'im up," Davy muttered, his head still down. "Let 'im eat later. I need a break."

Picking up the tray, Mike set it down on the table, and sat across from Davy, tiredly staring at it without taking a sandwich for himself. "That boy's gotta be off his rocker."

Peter shrugged and sat down between them. "I dunno, I think his requests were pretty reasonable. You know Micky. He's always gotta be doing a hundred things at once. And you did say we'd take care of him, Mike."

Davy finally picked up his head, tired brown eyes staring incredulously at Peter. "He asked you to sort his socks by brightest white to greyest white. Then he asked me to alphabetize his trousers."

"…Yeah, I guess that's a little odd," Peter muttered. "But I don't mind, really. It's not like he can see the colors to do it himself."

"_Alphabetize his trousers,_ Peter," Mike emphasized.

"He's havin' a go," Davy added. "And a lot of this stuff doesn't need doin' at all. Look, I can only take so much. We ought to make him come out here to eat. Like he said, his legs aren't broken."

Mike nodded. Peter bit his lip, unsure. "Guys, he really needs us right now. I dunno what it is, but something feels off."

Mike chuckled. "Look, he's having fun, and he knows it. If we stop doing everything he wants us to do, he's eventually going to get out of bed and do it for himself." When Peter frowned, Mike reached out and patted his shoulder. "Look, have you ever closed your eyes and wandered around to see if you could do it?"

Peter nodded.

"That's all he has to do. And I think he knows it, too. I'm not sayin' it's gonna be easy for him, but if this is gonna last any length of time, he's gonna have to start doin' things on his own. And I really think that he's graspin' at straws here, tryin' to find stuff for us to do that doesn't need doin', just because he can."

They ate quietly for awhile, until Micky's voice came from the bedroom, "Hey! Did you guys make dinner?"

Peter stood up to grab another plate, ignoring Davy, who hissed, "Let him come out here, Peter!"

He took the plate into the bedroom, knocking on the door once to announce his arrival. "Thought you'd be asleep for awhile," he said.

"Yeah, I dozed off," Micky replied. When Peter handed him the plate, he felt around on it until he found one of the sandwiches. Picking the top slice off, he held it up to his nose and sniffed it, then prodded it with his fingers. "What's this? It's slimy."

"Mustard," Peter grunted. "On salami. I'll go get you a napkin."

He left the room, wondering if Davy and Mike were right. Maybe if he just didn't go back, Micky would eventually leave the room on his own, and take care of himself a little. But it was just his first day home from the hospital. Eventually, he'd do all that on his own, right? There was no reason to force him into it, right?

Davy and Mike weren't exactly glaring at him, but they were staring in his general direction with a look of bored frustration. After retrieving a napkin from the counter, Peter started to head back, but stopped, turning back toward the table.

_What if they were right?_

Peter sometimes had a hard time determining when he was being taken advantage of. He genuinely wanted to help people, to be their friends, and to take care of them. The more he thought about Micky, though, the more he realized that he was being used. They all were.

The unease lingered, even then.

Something wasn't adding up.

Against his better judgment, he sat back down. A few minutes later, the call came from the room: "Hey, Peter! You get that napkin?"

A few minutes later, Micky's voice came again. "Hey, Pete? You still here?" Then, "Davy? Mike?"

It hurt to sit there, letting Micky call them. But their friend was nothing if not tenacious. Eventually, he'd get tired of shouting and actually get out of bed. The longer they sat there, the more frustrated Micky became.

"Guys, this isn't funny! What if I have to go to the bathroom or somethin'?"

"Hey, don't worry about the napkin. I used the wall!"

"Guys?"

"Peter? Davy?"

"Miiiiike?"

When he didn't say anything for a while, Peter began to feel the old stirrings of worry again. The unease he felt was building to a slight anxiety, and eventually he said, "Look, guys. I gotta go in there."

Without waiting for a response, Peter pushed his chair back and hurried into the bedroom.

Micky stood next to the bed, eyes wide, hands slightly in front of him. Every couple seconds, he'd feel around as if disoriented, and, finding nothing, he'd turn his head back and forth. His face was wet from tears, which had also created little spots on his pajamas. He looked terrified; at that moment, the entire reason behind Peter's unease became clear: Micky was scared.

Stepping forward, Peter took hold of Micky's hands. His friend was so relieved, that he threw his arms around Peter, suddenly releasing the flood gates and sobbing into his shoulder. "I thought you guys left me," he muttered quietly. "I couldn't feel anything. I didn't know where to step…"

"Micky, you know the house…"

Peter felt the other young man shake his head violently. "I dunno what to say. It's different now. It's not— It's just not the same, okay?"

As Mike and Davy wandered through the door, as well, Micky continued. "I can't do this. There's no color, there's no… I need to be able to … Everything I did I _saw_, Peter."

"Mick? You okay?" Mike finally asked.

He shook his head again, face still buried in Peter's shoulder.


	4. Empty

Standing uneasily with one hand braced against the doorframe, Davy stared into the small bedroom, where Micky was holding onto Peter as if his life depended on it. Saying nothing and unable to come to terms with his own miscalculation, Davy felt his face burning hot, his eyes stinging and threatening to spill tears themselves. Leaving Micky to his own devices had, after all, been his idea.

Peter tried to pull away, but Micky's fingers curled around his sleeves, and held him tightly. Gently, Peter said, "It's okay. I'm not going anywhere."

"I thought you guys left me," Micky repeated.

Words wouldn't come to Davy, as much as he wanted them to. He'd been so frustrated over the idiotic things Micky was having him do that he'd missed his friend's fear entirely. Surely it hadn't been there the whole time, though! At the hospital, they'd all been joking and laughing and having a pretty decent time. Micky seemed to have come to terms with the injury, and that it might take a while to heal. Then, when they got home, he was having an awfully good time ordering them all around…

"You knew, didn't you, Peter?" Mike said softly.

The blond nodded, rubbing Micky's back to calm him. Eventually, though still holding onto his scared friend, Peter was able to take a step back, leaving a miserable Micky staring forlornly in the direction of the floor. "Guys, he's scared. You would be, too."

"Why didn't you tell us, Micky?" Mike asked.

Finally finding his voice, Davy added, "And why'd you make us do all that stuff?"

He looked up at them, eyes eerily vacant but somehow sincere. After a moment, Micky managed a tiny smile and a shrug. "I thought if I could keep you guys busy, you wouldn't figure out how scared I was." He paused, head turning from side to side jerkily. Eventually - though Davy wasn't sure how - Micky managed to look right at him. "It's different than it was in the hospital. I … I knew the layout of the room, you know? And I didn't want to ask you guys for… help."

Mike smiled, stepping forward and putting a hand on Micky's shoulder. "So instead of askin' us for the help you _needed,_ you — "

"In my defense, I did need my pants alphabetized." He reached up, mopping the back of his hand across his eyes. "Heh. I thought if I kept you guys busy long enough, I'd get past the whole thing on my own. Get out of bed and figure out how to get around."

Davy still couldn't find the words to speak. He wanted to tell Micky that leaving him to fend for himself was his idea, but seeing his good friend reduced to tears hurt so much, it was making him angry. His hands clenched into fists, and he bit his lip, remaining silent.

"Close your eyes," Peter said softly.

Micky chuckled a bit. "I don't think it— "

"Just close your eyes," Peter repeated.

After a moment, Micky did so, and Peter took both of his hands. "Okay, Mick. Try to picture where you're standing."

Micky didn't say anything, his face becoming a mask of concentration as he scowled. His eyes were closed lightly, lower lip sticking out in what almost looked to be a pout. Eventually, he nodded, and Peter stepped back, still holding onto his hands. Reluctantly, Micky followed with shuffling footsteps, toes dragging along the ground as if he was afraid he'd trip over something. Every time he felt an inconsistency in the surface of the old floor, he'd stop, running his toe over the spot to investigate it.

Mike followed behind, stopping whenever Micky stopped, placing a hand on his shoulder for encouragement. Meanwhile, Davy stood at a distance, watching this entire spectacle silently. He shouldn't have been so rash, but Mike had gone along with it, and Peter eventually had, too! And it must have been worth it, since now Micky was out of his bed and learning to walk around the house again. Davy shouldn't feel anything other than a sense of accomplishment at the whole thing, right? Despite the roundabout success, he still felt awful.

It all could have been solved by just talking about everything directly to Micky.

A few minutes later, Peter was leading Micky around the room more quickly. The blinded young man had developed a certain halting confidence about the whole thing; he still hesitated at times, but his periods of standstill diminished the more he walked. In time, Peter and Mike led him toward the door.

"Whoa," Micky said.

Peter stopped, looking up. "Huh?"

"Did we just step out of the bedroom? The sound opened up."

Peter and Mike looked at each other, smiling. "Yeah," Mike squealed excitedly. "Yeah, you heard that, see? You're doin' fine, babe. Here." He reached out, taking one of Micky's hands from Peter, and put it on the bedroom doorframe. Micky felt it, his hand then moving to the wall, then trailing along its surface as Peter continued to lead him forward.

Quietly, Davy followed, inexplicable anger still preventing him from saying anything useful.

It wasn't until Peter tried to pull Micky away from the wall that Micky spoke again, as he stretched, fingers maintaining contact with the surface. "I'm not ready yet. I don't want to— to— "

Peter relented, stepping back toward the wall. Micky pressed his palm against it, slumping, taking a deep breath. He laughed shakily, opening his eyes again as he leaned his head against the surface. "One thing at a time, guys. Baby steps, okay?"

And baby steps were exactly what they all took over the next few days as Micky re-acquainted himself with the pad. To Davy, he always seemed shaky and unsure; he always had someone to take his hand and guide him, which seemed blatantly unlike the Micky he knew. Davy wanted to say, "Stop being so scared and just get over it!" but instead, he'd exchange small-talk and random pleasantries with his roommate, before moving on to talk to Mike or Peter. The anger persisted, always just seething under the surface. Resentment and frustration often manifested in the middle of the night, when Micky needed something or another and Davy was the closest to him. Sometimes, he'd even pretend not to wake up, so Michael or Peter would have to deal with it.

It all made Davy feel terrible.

"You sure you're ready for this?" Peter asked one day, as he led Micky up the stairs to the bandstand.

"I gotta see if I can still play sometime," Micky muttered. His hand reached out, eyes narrowing, until he found the sheet covering his drums. He gave it a tug, finding it caught on something. "Pete? Can you…"

Peter let go of Micky's hand. The reaction wasn't as powerful as it had been a couple days before, but Davy still saw Micky's eyes widen as his now free hand groped for anything he could reach. Eventually, all ten of his fingers were wrapped around the sheet, holding onto it for dear life.

"It was just under the amp," Peter said. "Try now."

Micky pulled the sheet off, letting it flutter to the floor. Quickly, he reached out for where his stool would be, finding it and sitting quickly, sighing with relief. Mike picked up the sheet and set it out of the way, before meandering over to his spot and reaching for his guitar.

"She's gonna need tuning," Mike said. "Haven't played in a few days…"

Even that made Davy bristle. Michael very rarely ever went a full day without playing his guitar. This whole thing with Micky had everyone so upside-down, it would be easier if Micky had stayed in the hospital, or went home to his parents!

…The guilt that followed that thought was crushing. Davy bit his lip, quickly ascending the stairs to the bandstand to locate his tambourine. They were all _best friends,_ for crying out loud. Of course they were all taking care of Micky. Somewhere in his mind, Davy knew he wouldn't have it any other way, but he couldn't stop feeling that anger.

As Peter helped Mike tune with his keyboard, Davy continued to watch Micky, whose hands awkwardly passed over the surfaces of several of his drums, as if searching for something. His face seemed on the verge of temper, and he was certainly fed up with the task. Davy quickly realized that Micky was looking for his drumsticks.

Davy spotted them off to the side of the drum kit, where they'd fallen to the floor when the sheet was pulled off. Quickly, he picked them up, and proceeded to stand there, holding onto them, still looking down at Micky's frustrated attempt to locate them. How could he help _now,_ when he hadn't done anything for Micky over the past few crucial days? Now that the other guys had taken over getting their friend re-acclimated, anything Davy could do at this point would seem inconsequential. If he did anything now, it would almost feel worthless.

Making a decision, he silently set the drumsticks down on one of the drums, so that Micky could find them himself. A moment later, Micky's hand wrapped around them, and his eyes narrowed in confusion.

Davy hoped he wouldn't question their sudden appearance.

Luckily, at that moment, Mike decided his guitar was tuned to his satisfaction. "All right, Mick. Let's start with somethin' you don't have to sing, too. Ease you in a bit. How 'bout 'I Wanna Be Free?'"

"That one's got no drums, Mike," Peter said. "Or really much of anything else for that matter."

"You don't have to make it _that_ easy," Micky laughed. He twirled his sticks. When they both fell to the floor, Peter retrieved them. "C'mon, I'm ready. Let's do Clarksville. I could play that in my sleep. Sing it, too."

"Okay, Mick," Michael said, smiling. Davy had to admit, it would feel good to play again, so even he found himself smiling as Mike counted them in.

Right from the beginning, though, even before the intro guitar riff had finished, it became clear that there was something wrong.

"Wasn't ready," Micky muttered. "Sorry, try again, okay?"

Mike counted them in again. Were it even possible, Micky's ability to sense the rhythm of the music seemed even more impaired on the second try. He just wasn't hitting at the right time. Still, instead of stopping again, Mike kept them going - maybe after a few measures, Micky would get used to things again and actually start playing properly. But he never started singing, and as they continued to play, his drumming went from bad to worse.

When he stopped trying, Mike signaled the others to stop, as well. Micky sighed. "Guys, this isn't gonna work."

"Nah," Mike said. "Look, once you get the hang of it…"

Micky shook his head. "Trust me. It's not gonna work." The look on his face was painful, and, Davy noticed, right on the verge of anger once again. For that moment in time, he actually felt a re-kindled connection with his curly-haired best friend, and then Peter - innocent, kindly Peter - ruined everything.

"Well, maybe you and Davy could switch for awhile! You do back-up percussion, he can do the drums."

That's when Micky lost it. Tossing his drumsticks at the kit, which clattered against his floor tom and cymbals and fell to the floor, he got to his feet. "You're not gonna stick me with something that takes absolutely no skill to play."

No skill?

_No skill!?_

Davy stood as well, pointing at Micky, even though he realized a moment later that he couldn't see the gesture. "I'll have you know that the tambourine and maracas are a lot harder than they look!"

He saw the apologetic realization on Micky's face.

But he couldn't stop. The rage had been building for far too long, and now, here on the bandstand in front of all the other guys, Davy was going to let it all out. "No skill! This is comin' from the guy who's havin' such a crisis of self-confidence that he thinks he can't play the drums without lookin' at 'em!"

When Micky turned to him, Davy dug the knife in a little deeper. "And don't look at me with those empty eyes! It's bloody creepy as hell. Go on! Look away!"

He told himself to shut up as Micky looked at the floor. But he couldn't. "We've been bendin' over backward for you the past few days, and when it comes time for you to do somethin' for us - you know, actually play the instrument you're supposedly good at - you fail. You fail so completely that you gotta pull me down with you. Amazin', Micky."

"Davy…" Mike muttered.

But he couldn't stop. "Y'know, I bet you _can_ see! This is some elaborate prank and you're havin' a laugh at all of us, aren't you? Why do you think I haven't been bowin' to you every time you call me at night, huh? Why, Micky?"

Peter transferred the bass to his right hand, gently placing a hand on Micky's shoulder. It was only then that Davy noticed the silent tears that were spilling down Micky's face.

"Pete?" Micky said.

"Yeah, Micky?"

"I need help stormin' off to my bedroom and slamming the door. Think you can help me with that?"

Peter glared at Davy. It was a look that Davy hoped to never, ever see again, since it was so uncharacteristically ugly. "Yeah, Micky. C'mon."

As Peter helped Micky down the stairs, the latter muttered, "Peter, are my eyes really empty?"

"A little, Mick. Sorry."

"Well, that sucks."

Davy didn't turn as they left. Feeling the gravity of what he'd just done land squarely on his shoulders, he just continued staring at the vacated drum setup. The next thing he heard was the bedroom door slamming shut.

Michael stared at Davy for another moment, before shaking his head and placing old Blondie back in her stand. "You ain't done nothin' for him," Mike said quietly. "And he's been tellin' us, 'guys, don't worry. Davy's just scared, too. He'll come around.' That's years of trust you just stepped all over, David. Unbelievable."

Davy still didn't turn as Mike left, his footsteps receding up the spiral staircase. A moment later, another door slammed, and Davy was left alone.

He swallowed the lump in his throat and dropped the tambourine. Davy's just scared.

_Davy's just scared._

He hated being scared. It made him feel like less of a person.

Being scared made him angry.

And he'd taken that anger out on the very person who hadn't deserved it.

"I am," he murmured to nobody. The truth hit him painfully, now more than it had before. Along with being terrified over Micky's very ability to function, now he had to wonder whether or not he could even salvage their friendship.

And being alone scared him more than anything else he could think of.


	5. Standing Still

Michael quietly plucked out "Pleasant Valley Sunday" on his guitar, as he and Micky sat out on their balcony deck. Every once in awhile, Micky would sing along for a couple measures, then fall back into silence, his eyes staring at nothing off in the distance. While Michael sat on a folding chair, Micky was sprawled out on the deck's surface, leaning upright against the rail. He looked sad, worn out, and tired… Mike hoped that a little bit of music would help him, but so far, it just seemed to drive Micky farther into absent contemplation.

"Here in status symbol land… Mothers complain…"

Unable to let the verse continue unsung, Mike finished, "…about how hard life is… And the kids just don't understand. C'mon, Mick. You keep zoning out."

"Sorry, I'm just thinking."

"Yeah, that's the problem. Hang on a sec…" Mike set the guitar aside, carefully propping it against the bay window, before dropping out of his chair so he could sit next to Micky. "Care to talk a little, instead of internalizin' everything?"

If Mike knew one thing, it was that Micky loved talking. That he'd managed to go this long without talking about the argument between him and Davy seemed very unlike him, and it was worrying. After all, it had been a couple days, and things still weren't back to normal. It was unprecedented. "Look," Mike said. "Y'don't have to be mad at yourself or anything. You didn't do anything wrong."

"I know," Micky said. "I'm not. Actually, I'm kinda worried for Davy."

Surprised, Mike sputtered, "After what he said you you?"

Micky shrugged. "Think about it for a sec. We all know what he's like. When he's scared, he gets mad. I dunno why." He re-situated himself, sitting up so he was more comfortable. Still, his eyes remained blankly fixed, although he managed to turn them in Mike's direction. "Don't get me wrong. What he said still stings… I mean, I didn't know he was quite _that_ angry."

"He shouldn'ta been angry at all," Mike grumped, pulling up his knees so he could rest his arms on them. "I mean, if he broke his leg or somethin', we'd all help him. Wouldn't yell at him 'cuz… Haha, you can't walk anymore!"

Micky snickered, his hand reaching out for Mike's shoulder. It missed, so Mike grabbed his friend's wrist and placed the hand on his own shoulder, so Micky could give him a shove. "It's not like that, Mike. I can't explain it to you, except that I kinda know how his mind works. Uh. Let's say you feel helpless about some situation. What do you do?"

Mike shrugged. Since Micky's hand was still on his shoulder, he felt the gesture would be interpreted well enough.

"I'll tell you what you do," Micky said. "You get mad at yourself. Me? I joke about it, 'cuz laughter makes the bad go away. And Peter just goes out of his way tryin' to help everyone. Davy has to find someone to be mad _at._ He needs someone to blame. That's how he deals."

"It ain't right, Micky."

"It's not. But neither's getting mad at yourself. Or cracking jokes. Or setting the Guinness world record for most people helped in one hour." He smiled, finally dropping his hand to his knee. "I had nothing to do _but_ study you guys. And we all did what I expected us to do. You don't show it as well, 'cuz you're sneaky. But I know you were blaming yourself."

Michael was silent for a moment. Micky hadn't ever really been the most observant of them all, but like he said, with nothing else to do but pay attention to the others, he'd pretty much hit the nail on the head. "If I'd insisted on cash instead of tickets…"

Micky cut him off. "Ah, there it is."

"Hah, you're right, it does sound kinda silly. Like I'm supposed to be able to predict the future or somethin'."

Unfortunately, despite how ridiculous it sounded, Mike continued to believe he could have done something to prevent the accident, even if logic told him otherwise. It felt as if he'd failed them all, and now there was a split between two people who were previously as close as two friends could possibly be. Maybe if he'd said something sooner, or dragged Davy off before any real damage was done…

"You're doing it again, aren't you?" Micky asked, smirking.

Michael laughed. "Nah, you're imagining things."

"Look. Davy and I will be okay. I promise. Maybe not tonight or tomorrow or the next day. But we'll be okay. We'll just have to connect again, make it work out, you know? A little argument isn't gonna rip us apart forever."

"So, why don't you go in there and talk to him?"

The smile fell from Micky's face immediately, and he turned his face toward the ocean. Mike had to admire his bandmate's tenacity, and the almost unwavering positive outlook he always showed to the world. But what Davy said cut so much deeper than just the surface, and for the first time, Micky was feeling something he couldn't joke about. The helplessness was too severe. Quietly, Mike said, "You dunno how to start, do you?"

Silence followed. Leaning back, Mike got a hand around his guitar and dragged it away from the window, resting it in his lap. "Look, if I start playin' again, will you get out of your own head and sing along for awhile? I think it'll do you some good."

"Yeah," Micky said, voice distant. "Take it from the top, Fearless Leader."

—-

"You know," Davy said. He stood up for a moment, adjusting the stool downward a little, before sitting back at the drums. "You're the only one who's talking to me at the moment."

Peter didn't usually get too angry at people. His friends back home used to think he was a little too slow to feel such things, but that wasn't true at all. He just didn't like to waste his time being mad. Consequently, if he ever reached his breaking point, Peter was usually quick to forgive. Smiling, he said, "Well, I guess someone needs to help you with the drums." He paged through one of Micky's books - an old, worn volume - as Davy got himself situated.

"I'm glad you are," Davy went on. "You can pretty much play anything, can't you?"

Peter shrugged. "I just pick things up quick, is all." He flipped through the book, before rolling his eyes and tossing it aside.

"Hey! I need that!" Davy complained, but Peter shook his head.

"Nah, you aren't gonna be able to read about it. That all just complicates things. I dunno what half those words even mean."

Davy slumped, reaching for the drumsticks. "Well, I don't even know where to start, other than …"

He trailed off, feebly tapping out a beat on the snare drum.

"Go on, add the crash," Peter encouraged. He had to admit, despite the fact that Davy had no previous training at the drums, he had a sort of natural rhythm. It was enough that Peter could tell what song he was trying to play, just by the beat.

Of course, that being said, his current ability wouldn't endear them to anyone at a gig. They had some work to do.

"Uh, look. Okay." Peter stood, repositioning Davy in a more natural position for playing. "Start out simple.

"I don't know what simple is, man!" Davy whined. "Look, I've seen Micky do it a thousand times, but I can't exactly copy 'im if I haven't been askin', 'Okay, now what're you playin'? I mean, this is the opposite of the tambourine. This stuff is complicated as— as…"

"Something really complicated. C'mon, we can do this." Peter pulled his stool behind the drum kit, sitting down next to Davy. "You remember how he warms up, right?"

Davy nodded, stepping on the pedal for the hi-hat cymbal. "He just taps this thing. One-and-two-and-three-and-four…"

He continued on, eyes fixed on the cymbal for a time, until he felt comfortable adding the bass drum every other beat. It certainly didn't sound anything like Micky's wild, careless drumming, but it was a start, and Peter hoped that it would develop into its own unique sound with time. Or, with any luck, Micky's eyes would recover, and Micky himself would take back his seat behind his kit. Even Peter found his thoughts waxing negatively on that front, though. If there was to be improvement, wouldn't they have seen it by now?

Davy added in the snare, this time with more control. The sound was still slow, but it had come together with the signature eight-note pattern that Micky usually used when he was getting ready to play.

"That's good," Peter said. "That sounds good, okay, now…"

"No," Davy said.

The rhythm stopped, and Davy set the sticks down on the floor tom, standing up. He glanced out the bay window, where Mike and Micky were sitting together, playing the guitar.

"Mike's going out tomorrow to try and book us somewhere," Peter said, gently reminding Davy that they had rent to pay, without outright saying it. "We need someone who can play."

"At best, I'd just be limping along," Davy muttered. "Micky should be doin' it. These are his drums, mate. I'm not a drummer, I'm the pretty face. You know that."

Sighing, Peter wrapped his arm around Davy's shoulders, pulling him back toward the drums. "You're the pretty face with really amazing natural rhythm."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Usually, Davy would be encouraged by such ego boosts. Peter expected him to pick up the sticks and get right back to learning how to play. After all, he already seemed well on his way to at least nailing down the basics, and that's all they needed to start out with. The rest could come later.

But Davy continued to sit there, staring at the toms in front of him. "I kinda feel like we're pushing Micky out."

The blond glanced backward again, out the window. Mike met his eyes and shook his head.

"You guys are going to need to talk eventually," Peter said. "You both said some hurtful things…"

"All Micky said was that playin' the tambourine was easy, really. And he was right. Why the hell should I get mad at that? Naw, Peter. It was me. I said some hurtful things, and he didn't deserve any of it. Not a word."

"No, he didn't," Peter agreed. "But things aren't going to get better if…"

"I can't talk to him right now. It'd be like spitting in his face or somethin'. I don't even know how to apologize after sayin' what I did." Davy drew his knees up, nearly folding himself in half as he sat on the small stool, and buried his face in folded arms.

"Well, 'I'm sorry' is a good start," Peter encouraged.

"That's just what he'd be expecting," Davy grunted.

Struck speechless, all Peter could manage was, "Uhhhh…"

"I mean, what would you do, Pete? If I'd said to you what I said to Micky?"

Peter, quite good at empathy and putting himself in other peoples' shoes, tried to imagine a situation where someone would say horrible things to him. Before he met the other Monkees, most of his friends would call him slow. Stupid. He didn't mind it, because he never felt a real connection with any of them, but here in their Malibu beach house, Peter felt a strong bond with all of his housemates. He loved them. Trusted them. If any of them called him stupid, he'd be absolutely heartbroken.

His eyes widened, and he looked at Davy.

Davy nodded, picked up the sticks, and started again on the simple, eight-note rhythm.

—-

The days passed without any sign of improvement from Micky. Unfortunately, as guilty as he felt about the whole thing, Michael needed to move everyone forward, and get hold of some sort of gig that would pay their rent. Not only that, but Micky had some pretty steep medical bills to cover in the realm of thousands of dollars. With all of them having made a promise to help out with said bills, they needed work, and fast.

After searching for most of the day, Mike returned to his "Home Base," also known as the nearby record store. Whenever he couldn't find anything around town, he'd take what he could get from the bulletin board just inside the door. Normally, these gigs didn't pay too much, but at least it would be _something._ At the end of the day, something was always better than nothing.

But as he looked through the scores of fliers that said things like 'Wanted - Band to Play for Free at Teen's Birthday Party,' something caught his eye. A sheet of paper, obviously printed on a newer mimeograph, beckoned him, promising the answer to all of their prayers.

While the cashier wasn't looking, Mike grabbed it off the board and stuffed it in his pocket, before quietly sidling out the door and running toward the Monkeemobile.

It was a long shot, he realized as he drove home, but if they really wanted to… They could make this work. They had to.

He pulled into the driveway, parking sideways. Really, he shouldn't have left the car in such a position. One of their fellow neighborhood tenants would doubtlessly say something to Mr. Babbitt about the rock-and-rollers down the street who had no respect for the quiet look of the neighborhood, but that was the farthest thing from Mike's mind at the moment.

Throwing open the door, he ran into the house. "Guys! Guys, c'mon, I found somethin' you're all gonna want to see!"

He stood in the middle of the living room, hopping from foot to foot as he waited for the others to gather. Davy came in from the kitchen, while Peter ran down the spiral staircase and into the downstairs bedroom to fetch Micky. Once they were all there, Mike read the flier. "Radio station KRIX, in conjunction with UCLA, is holding a band competition. Top prize is ten _thousand_ dollars. That'll more than cover Micky's medical expenses!"

Micky's face lit up, and he asked, "How're they doing it? How's it work?"

"There's… um. Hang on." Mike took a moment to read the fine print. "There's three rounds. The first two are elimination rounds. Uh… You have to live within a certain distance of Los Angeles… Guys, we can do this. I mean, even if we come in second or third, that's still something!"

He was very rarely so excited about anything, but he knew his bandmates well. He knew that when something like this - an opportunity so golden - was presented to them, they'd overcome any differences they might have and pull together to win.

Except none of them were looking at each other. Davy seemed particularly interested in the floor, and Micky's smile and dimmed so much that it was barely noticeable.

"Guys?" Mike ventured.

"We'll… We'll work it out," Peter said, voice warm and encouraging, despite Davy's and Micky's silence. "Look, when's the first round?"

Mike continued reading down the flier. "It was just posted, so it'll be some time off yet… Here we go. We got a couple weeks. I'll have to get our registration in tomorrow."

He met Peter's eyes again, like he had when he was out on the deck, talking to Micky. They had a lot of work to do in two weeks.

And with two members of their band at odds, their setlist was the least of their concerns


	6. Reconcile

In recent nights, there were times when Micky could only lie awake, wondering in the stillness of the bedroom if his eyes were opened or closed. He arched his eyebrows, straining to see something - anything - only to mutter a quiet syllable of defeat to himself. "Open. I think."

When he closed his eyes, he saw the same thing.

On nights like this, he often felt a headache starting just behind his eyes, working to his temples, and then farther back. He hoped the pain signified that his eyes were somehow trying to work again, but he was always disappointed hours later when nothing appeared in his field of vision. He could call someone to help him get an Aspirin from the kitchen, but since Davy wouldn't help him, that meant waking up the whole house by yelling for Mike or Peter. No, not tonight.

Listening quietly for a while, he heard the steady, rhythmic sounds of his roommate's snores. They were quiet, but unique. And since Davy couldn't duplicate the exact same sound when he was awake and only _pretending_ to be asleep, Micky knew for a fact that he had long ago descended into dreamland.

For a few moments, Micky lay there with his eyes closed, hoping he could find away to ignore the expanding headache and fall asleep himself. After several unsuccessful minutes of waiting, though, he sat up, swinging his feet over the edge of the bed until his feet contacted the cold floor.

He'd never done this without help before.

His toes worked over every irregularity of the surface below. Every bump, every scratch, was part of the floor's grand, sweeping signature. Before his accident, the floor only existed at the periphery of Micky's consciousness, but now it presented a distinct, passive obstacle.

Licking his lips, he stood, feeling the odd vertigo of being completely alone and unattached. Unlike the first time he attempted this, though, Micky felt no fear as he stepped forward, his hand automatically seeking out a contact. He knew he would eventually reach the door; moreover, he could reassure himself that the house wasn't big enough for him to get irretrievably lost in, even if it felt like his world had suddenly quadrupled in size.

He found a certain splintered, warped board underfoot and nodded. Reaching out his left hand, he wrapped it tightly around the doorframe, proud of his small success. Stalling, he patted it gently, rubbing his hand over the surface and committing its signature to his memory. Every little knot and bump seemed intrinsically important to learning how to navigate the house by himself.

As he stepped out of the bedroom, the sound opened up again, and he couldn't help feeling his stomach drop a bit. He knew the general location of the kitchen, and that if he went _to the right_ he could get there. But a hundred-thousand things stood between him and that bottle of Aspirin - walls and tables and clutter on the floor… And monsters and other invisible things that Micky couldn't even begin to name or describe. Sliding his foot forward, he ever-so-slowly crept forward until his hand found something else. Disoriented at first, he realized after a moment of thought that he'd reached the spiral staircase.

Sliding to the right, he reached his hand out until his feet led him to the kitchen table, and then, feeling his way around that, he stretched out his hand until he felt the counter.

With a sigh, he smiled. That hadn't been all that difficult, after all. Even so, the hardest part still remained - actually finding the bottle of Aspirin.

Having taken for granted the simple act of finding his way around a kitchen, Micky found himself fumbling with the edge of the cupboard in order to get it to open. For some odd reason, he completely forgot which side of the door hinged to the cabinet, and found himself tugging on the wrong edge. Sighing, he worked his hand along the bottom until it opened, only to bean himself on the forehead with one corner.

He swore softly. "Just what I need. Another concussion."

Again irritated with his disorientation, he felt around on the bottom shelf of the cupboard until his hand brushed against a few bottles. Carefully touching each one of them, he came to the dismal conclusion that each one had roughly the same general shape and size.

Micky leaned forward, his weight on his forearm as it rested against the shelf. Bowing his head, he tried to fight back the sting in his eyes again, gritting his teeth until his jaw hurt. Despite the effort, he still felt the odd, heavy flooding of tears running down his cheeks. Having never been particularly reliant on anyone, unless he made a conscious decision to do so, Micky found the helplessness to do even the simplest of tasks to be bordering on infuriating.

Narrowing his eyes and allowing a single sob, he reached for the bottles again. He yanked them out of the cupboard and set them on the counter in front of him one at a time, feeling each one in turn. One had no label, so he pushed it aside, because he clearly remembered that the Aspirin bottle had one. Another had no ridges around the cap, so he shoved that one off to the side, too.

Two remained, and were both absolutely identical to the touch. After a brief contemplation, he twisted the top off one and sniffed it, getting a noseful of what smelled almost like rot. "Antibiotics," he muttered, pleased with himself.

He did the same with the other, finding it to have a clean, plastic-like scent. It almost burned, but not terribly so. The scent triggered a memory, and he could clearly picture the bottle in his mind - along with its contents. "Yeah, this is— " He turned the bottle over, tapping it until two capsules fell into his hand. Running his fingers over them, he found them to be the right shape.

Closing his hand around them, he smiled. With his other hand, he felt around for a glass, picking up the first one he found and raising it to his nose.

It smelled like day-old citrus.

"Orange juice. No."

The next one smelled like dishwater, but considering the stoppered up sink, Micky could only sigh, "I think that's about as good as I'm gonna get."

After filling the glass and hoping that the two gross-tasting tablets he'd just tossed into his mouth weren't one of his science experiments, he took a long drink of pure accomplishment. Really, it was just water, but it sure _felt_ like he'd achieved something major.

Strangely, he could feel something switching on in his brain. Granted, this weird feeling was there all along, right from the beginning, but he just now felt truly aware of it.

Pressing his lips together, he turned his head back toward the bedroom, but he realized he'd never be able to sleep with the restlessness that currently nagged at him. Micky felt almost excited. Giddy. Absorbed in a re-kindled sense of self-sufficiency that he hadn't even felt _before_ his injury. After feeling his way along the counter for a couple feet, he allowed his eyes to slide shut again and stepped into the unknown.

But this floor felt somehow familiar. In his head, he could picture where the table would be, so he didn't go in that direction. The next obstacle to avoid would be the couch, but now that Micky'd strayed into the center of the room, he could no longer be completely sure of where everything was around him. Crouching down a little, he inched forward; with each step, his senses all manifested a passive anxiety, telling him that he should be contacting the couch at any moment. Another inch… Another inch… There. There it was.

Nodding, he carefully felt his way around it. There would be a table to his left. Chairs to his right. Careful not to trip over the steps which he _knew_ he must be approaching, Micky slid his bare feet across the floor until they contacted them. Then, very gently and deliberately, he managed to avoid Mike's guitar and Peter's bass.

He knew the drums were in front of him, still set up as they'd been before. Knitting his eyebrows, he reached forward until his fingers touched the sheet, and he carefully pulled it off, folded it as best he could, and set it to the side so he wouldn't trip over it later. Then, finding, the stool, he sat down.

For a moment, it felt as if he were in complete sensory deprivation. It was so quiet in the pad, and he couldn't sense any light through his blinded eyes. The only thing he could feel was the seat under him.

With surprising accuracy, he reached out and touched the edge of his crash cymbal, and as he ran a finger along it, the picture began to build itself in his mind. First, it was just an outline, but then color started to appear in splashes of beautiful memory. A sense of distance and space, which he'd never had a reason to hone, guided his hand to the floor tom, where it gracefully lit on the edge for just a moment, before moving on to the snare. He reached for the hi-hat, finding it _off_ in its positioning just a tad, so he moved it closer.

As he did so, the two halves of it touched, creating the faintest _tch_ sound.

"You _echo,_" Micky mused, smiling. He could almost feel where the sound reverberated from the nearby surfaces with a sort of quality he'd never noticed before. He never _had_ to notice it before.

His ears were working both in unison and separately, picking up exactly _when_ a sound reached each one. The old fridge rumbled, and he found that he could pinpoint its exact location; when he looked in that direction, his imagination filled in the details. It was no substitute for sight, but he suddenly felt a whole lot more comfortable in his own home, which was a vast improvement from only a few hours prior. When the rumble struck the things around him, the echo bounced back, giving him a very general idea of how close he was to other things.

"I need to talk to Mike about writing a song about dolphins," he announced to no one. "Whales. Porpoises. Yeah, that's the one. One. One." He continued to speak quietly and in wonderment as the world of sound and its echo opened up to him. Even as he stood, his fingers continued to trail along the various pieces of his drum kit, his mind's eye forming a picture of each one.

Curious, he headed toward the bay window, continuing to mutter softly under his breath. When the quality of the sound changed, he reached out and found the wall right where he thought it would be.

Carefully, Micky found the step off the bandstand and descended to the main floor. Instead of speaking this time, he shuffled his feet, walking more quickly and with more confidence than he had before. When he neared something, the sound that reached his ears changed, just slightly, but enough so that he knew he was about to run into something.

For the first time, he felt as if he could potentially still live a decent life if his sight never came back. Of course, he still wished it would, but now Micky had _hope._ And it felt good. So good, that he continued on his somewhat reckless course through the house without paying proper attention to what was hanging around on the floor.

Before he knew what was happening, he tripped on whatever it was at his feet. Without his eyes, he couldn't find anything around him with which to catch himself, so he fell heavily, striking his elbow on the floor as he tried to tuck inward so he wouldn't hit his head again.

With his mood sufficiently dampened, he reached out for whatever it was that tripped him. The sound of a dialtone reached his ears just moments before his hand closed around the phone's receiver.

"What are you doing in the middle of the floor?" he grumbled.

His concentration on the phone prevented him from hearing the approaching footsteps.

"Micky?" the voice asked. Deep, baritone, British accent.

The echo from the sound of his breath reached his ears more quickly after that, so he could only conclude that Davy was now crouched down next to him. To confirm, he reached out a hand, which contacted a robed shoulder.

"Micky, what're you doing out here? On the floor?"

Hearing the voice was surprisingly painful. Quickly, he made sure to look away, toward the floor. A moment later, he heard a slight rustling of fabric and a quiet grunt. Perhaps, Micky thought, Davy was sitting down next to him? When the voice came again, it was slightly closer, confirming the suspicion. "Micky? You gonna talk to me? Why didn't you call for help?"

Micky clenched he jaw, placing the handset of the phone back on the receiver.

"Uh, don't answer that," Davy muttered.

Micky felt around behind him until his hand contacted a wall, which he leaned against. When he heard a scuffling and felt a warm shoulder against his, he realized that Davy had done the same. After a moment, Davy said, "Look, I know it's the middle of the night, but I guess this is as good a time as any to talk."

Micky forced a smile. "Talk? Again? I'm still reeling from the last time we had a conversation. I think my ego still has bruises."

Davy didn't reply.

Sighing, Micky reached up and tangled his fingers into his hair.

"Thanks for finding the phone?" Davy ventured.

"I think the phone found _me._" Micky scrunched up his nose as he felt the tears returning. He hated them, and how sensitive he was lately. Things he could brush off before just seemed to tear at him, running him down to a point where crying was quite high on his list of possible reactions. Thankfully, he could shamelessly blame stress on their frequency.

"Micky, I'm… I can't even find the words to tell you how sorry I am."

Micky stared straight ahead, still looking away from Davy, as he felt hot tracks work their way down his cheeks again.

"You know, I wanted to help you. And — I know… I know you're _you,_ and I know that this … thing that happened to you, it's not…" Pausing, he growled under his breath. "I can't quite put _you_ and _broken_ together in my mind, Mick."

Micky turn his head just a little. Not quite facing Davy, but not looking away, either.

"It wasn't what you said to me yesterday, either. It wasn't that. I don't know what made me say those things… I know you're not faking it, Micky, and I know you aren't pullin' me down with you, and I know you aren't a failure. You're hurt. And I don't… I don't know why I said what I did."

Micky sniffled, but smiled, leaning a little bit more against Davy's shoulder. "Don't feel too bad. I don't know how to find the words to tell you, 'apology accepted.'"

Davy didn't reply at first, then he said, "Sorry, I'm… You can't tell, but I'm smilin'. I kinda thought after what happened…"

"It hurt," Micky said, voice cracking. Still, like he told Mike, he knew how Davy reacted to situations like this. He needed someone to blame. Despite the sting in his shorter friend's words, Micky knew that the outburst was _right,_ that it had substance built out of more than just hate. "Did you feel better after?"

"No," Davy mumbled. "…yeah. Yeah, a little."

"We're all kinda scared, Davy."

Again, silence fell on the room, and Micky paid close attention to Davy's breathing in the interim. At such close proximity, he could also fell a gentle pulse from his friend's heart.

Hp. Hp. Hp.

"What's it like?" Davy asked. "What do you see? Black?"

Micky shook his head. "Nah, it's weird. It's not like when you shut your eyes. It's just nothing. There's _nothing_ where my sight should be."

"So you don't just see darkness?"

"I think I imagine it, but it's not really there. I don't know how to explain it."

"Does it still hurt?"

Micky nodded. "I get headaches. But they're less intense than they were before. I actually came out here to get some Aspirin."

"Oh… I can get that for you."

Davy started to stand up, but Micky reached out, managing to get his hand around an arm. Smiling he said, "I got it already. I was kinda getting used to hearing stuff when I tripped on the phone."

He could hear the incredulous smile in Davy's voice when he asked, "Hearing stuff?"

"Yeah! It's cool. I can kinda navigate by listening to how close I am to things. I'm like Batman."

Davy laughed, settling down on the floor again. "Well, I think that's great, Micky. Not that I wanted you to have to get used to not seein', but… I guess if you gotta…"

Micky smiled again, and brushed his sleeve across his face to dry it. "Hey, look, I'm sorry about what I said about the tambourine, too. It's not completely without skill. I mean, you got a really good sense of rhythm and all."

"Peter said that, too."

"Yeah? He's right."

"Been tryin' to learn the drums. Sure would be nice if you'd take up that banner again, though."

Truthfully, if he could picture them, Micky could probably play them. Still, the idea of sitting on stage, completely blind, in front of a few dozen people with his empty eyes was completely unappealing. "I love playin'," Micky said. "Kinda thought getting the tambourine was like a consolation prize. I think I woulda felt the same if Mike told me to play the guitar instead. It's just not me. But…"

"Competition's coming up, you know."

"You're doin' fine. Peter told me. And I can coach you a bit."

"At least _sing?_ You're the voice, Micky. I mean, we all got songs, but you… You _own_ 'em."

He considered this for a moment. He could stand stationary in front of the mic, and he certainly didn't have to worry about his inability to see affecting his vocal range. It wouldn't be like drumming, where he could easily miss striking a cymbal or drum completely. "Yeah. Yeah, I'll sing. I can do that."

"Maracas?" Davy ventured.

Chuckling, Micky nodded. "That can be arranged."

He heard Davy mutter a very quiet "yes" under his breath. After a time, he asked, "Micky, we're okay, right?"

Yawning, Micky nodded. "Davy, we never _weren't_ okay."


	7. One Step Forward

"You gotta hit the bass at the same time you hit the snare," Micky said. Despite the fact that they'd been at it for hours, he'd never once lost his temper. Every once in awhile, he'd take the sticks and demonstrate a couple notes, before quickly handing the responsibility back to Davy.

In those moments, Davy would stare at Micky's face. It seemed different. Sadder. Worried. Unfocused.

"I know, I know," Davy muttered. Frustrated, he randomly beat on whatever drum he could reach, and Micky chuckled.

"Here, lemme see the music."

Unable to resist the joke, Davy said, "I'm pretty amazing, Mick, but I couldn't let you _see_ it if I tried."

With surprising accuracy, Micky smacked Davy's shoulder, then held out his hand. "Just give me the sheet, okay? Geez, everyone thinks they're a comedian."

Davy, having absolutely no idea what Micky would possibly do with the sheet music, still handed it over. Micky proceeded to run his hand across the surface of the page, one line at a time. "Okay, this is the measure you're having trouble with, yeah? Just take out— Here, gimme a pencil."

"Wait a second," Davy snapped. "You can't possibly feel that!"

Micky smirked, almost playfully. "Usually, no. But I asked Peter to go over everything with pen. It makes indentations in the paper. Pretty good idea, if I do say so myself. Here, try it."

Davy took the paper back, squinting at it, noticing the tell-tale signs of shiny ink drawn painstakingly over every note. Peter also drew over each bar between the measures, which explained how Micky could find the exact part of the song Day had trouble playing. Running his finger over it, he found that he could feel every mark. "I'd still have trouble," he said, closing his eyes and trying to see the music how Micky saw it.

"I thought I would. But without sight, everything kinda seems…" The statement ended with a shrug, and he reached out for the page again. "You want me to fix it for you or not?"

"Yeah, here," Davy said, handing over both the music and a pencil. He watched as Micky felt over the music again, line by line, until reaching the measure that was giving Davy the most trouble. He then set it on the floor tom and started his corrections. Despite the aid Peter had provided, Micky still had to concentrate, and it took quite a long time for him to make the new notations. Davy was afraid to say he wasn't quite sure how to read it, either, especially since the measure was now full of scribbles and rearranged X's that seemed fairly random in their placement. Micky handed it back, and Davy could only reply with, "Uhhh…"

"That bad, huh?"

"I wasn't gonna say nothin'."

Micky picked the sheet up again, feeling the spot where he'd just made the corrections. "It makes sense to _me,_" he muttered. Narrowing his eyes, he bit his lip, gently touching each mark he'd made, before smiling. "Okay, look. Lemme walk you through it, instead…"

"You could do it," Davy said, picking up the sticks again and pressing them into Micky's hand. "You could, Mick. You know the part."

Micky tried to hand the sticks back to him, but Davy stood, backing away so that he was out of Micky's range. "Davy, we've been over this. I'm not doin' it. Now— Where'd you go?"

He'd backed away a few paces, his stockinged feet making no sound that Micky could follow. For the first time since they started on the drums, Davy saw the frustration etched plainly across Micky's face, which made him look exhausted, and far older than his years. It hurt to see that defeat, although Davy had been looking for it all day. Despite the concern, he couldn't help breathing, "There it is."

As soon as he spoke, Micky's head turned in his direction, and he stood. Stepping forward, he nearly tripped over the stool, reached out for balance, and tipped over the hi-hat cymbal. Instantly, Davy felt horrible.

"Mick…" he said quietly, as his friend covered his face with both hands. Still held lightly in the crook between his thumb and fingers were the drumsticks, which Davy reached out to take again. "Look, I just…"

"Every time somethin' like this happens, my eyes think, 'hey, I better cry,'" Micky muttered. As soon as Davy had the sticks, he pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes.

Not knowing what to say, Davy picked up the hi-hat, placing it back where it belonged among the other drums. Remaining silent, he allowed Micky whatever privacy he could manage as the sniffles increased in intensity and eventually started to abate. Finally, the short Englishman asked, "You okay?"

With one last snort, Micky rubbed his hand across his eyes and smiled. "Yeah, I think so."

He still looked lost. Stepping around the stool, Davy touched Micky's arm to let the other boy know he was close, and to his surprise, Micky threw his arms around him. Davy returned the hug, although after what he'd said to Micky, he wasn't entirely sure he deserved it.

The temptation was strong to work everything out with words and tears, to go to the store and get a gallon of ice cream and just talk it all out. That's what all Davy's girlfriends said they did when things got bad, but somehow, Davy didn't really see either him or Micky going for that. They were _men._ They had their manly dignity to protect! It was already hard enough for both of them whenever Micky cried - so much so that Micky had to blame it on his eyes.

Davy tried to urge himself to tell his friend that it was okay to cry. But no matter how he formed the words in his head, it always seemed silly.

So the hug continued, until Micky took a step back, running his hands through his hair.

Davy smiled, hoping that the expression would transfer to his voice. "Look, Mike and Peter are out shoppin', it's just you an' me here. Play the drums, Mick. See how you do. I won't tell the others you had a go at it."

He reached for Micky's wrist, but the rightful drummer's fingers curled into a fist so Davy couldn't hand the sticks back to him.

"What are you scared of?" Davy asked.

"A repeat of the last time I tried," Micky replied too quickly. "Look, I know you guys wouldn't laugh or make fun of me for it, but I… Don't want anyone to…" He paused, shaking his head. "If I keep playin' as bad as I did that day, you guys are just gonna give up and replace me."

"Mick, if we have to work with you night and day for the next ten years to get you comfortable playin' the drums without your eyes, so be it. We aren't about to replace you. Bloomin' 'ell, Mick, how d'you replace family?"

A look of hope crept into Micky's expression. "Yeah, but Mike…"

"Feels the same way. Maybe moreso. C'mon, don't be stupid."

After some thought, Micky allowed his fingers to relax, and Davy quickly handed the sticks to him, before he could change his mind. This done, Micky reached out for the kit, fingers lightly tracing over the hi-hat, then down to its stand. He pulled it closer, making sure to gently contact each of the drums in turn, apparently to make sure they were all lined up properly. Then, he sat down. "Look, I'm not so sure…" he began, stopped, and started feeling over the equipment again. The toms, the snare drum, all the cymbals, then he stepped on the pedal of the bass drum a few times.

The deep thump resonated off the bay window glass, before dying out, leaving the room in silence. The process began again, but Davy quietly let Micky familiarize himself with the setup for as long as he needed to.

Finally, he sat back, head tilting upward. "Okay, Davy, what're we playing?"

"That's the spirit. Okay, how 'bout… Hang on." He jumped off the bandstand, hurrying to the closet, where Mike kept an old acoustic guitar tuned up. That way, just in case any of their musically-inclined friends dropped by, they could jam for a bit without touching Michael's beloved blonde Gretsch. The only one who ever touched _that_ guitar was Michael himself.

Davy wasn't the best with the guitar, but over the years, he'd come to learn a few of their older tunes pretty well. At times, if they had a more complicated piece, Davy could fill in a secondary guitar part, too, which meant he paid attention when the others played, enough so that he could do it if necessary.

Pulling one of the chairs over, he sat down facing the bandstand, balancing the guitar in front of him. It was a little to large, but he could still manage to get his fingers situation on the proper frets to play the correct chords. "Okay, we both need a song that we're comfortable with, yeah? How 'bout 'Take a Giant Step?'"

"With guitar and drums?" Micky asked, skeptical.

"Sure, why not? We can make it sound all right. You okay to sing, mate?"

Micky nodded. "It's not the singin' I'm worried about."

After plucking each of the strings to make sure the guitar was still in tune, Davy counted them in, playing the intro. When it came time for Micky to join in, it seemed almost natural. Perhaps even better than it sounded before, since he couldn't rely on sight to guide his hand.

Davy watched Micky as he played. The drummer's eyes closed, and his brows knit in concentration. It must have been difficult, drumming blindly, hoping he was striking the right surface at the right time and not missing them all together. As the song went on, though, Micky became more comfortable with his role, even improvising for the different, two-piece arrangement.

And he sang.

The voice was pained and full of all the heart Davy was used to hearing from Micky, except this seemed somehow more intense and closer to home than it ever had. Perhaps it was the choice of song - Davy really hadn't considered it before, and only chose it because he knew the drum part was fairly easy to play. In hindsight, though, perhaps the choice came about by divine inspiration or something equally absurd. In any case, Micky sang the song like his life depended on a stellar performance.

In the middle of their playing, nothing else mattered. Davy hadn't felt quite so amazed since the first time they all played together and really _felt the music_ for the first time.

After they played the last few measures, Davy stood up, setting the guitar behind him on the chair. He couldn't contain the laughter of amazement that followed. "Micky, did you know you can _sing?_" he asked.

"I second _that,_" Mike's voice came from behind. Davy turned, to see the front door still open, the other two members of their band standing just inside. Mike had a huge smile on his face. "And play. That was amazing."

"You got Peter in tears," Davy said. When he looked back at Micky, though, the drummer's eyes were wide.

"You said they weren't here. You said it was just you and me."

"They weren't when we started— Does it matter?"

The expression on Micky's face was unreadable. It almost looked like he'd put on a mask to hide the emotion, although Davy could see where the various cracks appeared in it. Worry shone through. Nervousness. A lack of self-confidence.

"You were great, Mick," he said softly. "It was perfect. Better than perfect."

The door closed. Mike didn't say anything else, instead carrying the bags of groceries to the kitchen. Peter still stood by the door, looking at the bandstand, before eventually creeping over, almost like a puppy who'd done something wrong. "Micky?" the blond said.

"Yeah, Peter?"

"It'd be great if we could all play with you sometime. It was really groovy. I missed you at the drums, man."

Finally, Micky smiled, turning his head to look at Davy. Offering encouragement of his own, Davy said, "Yeah, man. Really groovy."

And then, Micky beamed. "Yeah, I know. You're talking to the master, after all." He threw the drumstick up, intending to catch it on its way down, but it clattered to the floor. "If someone could just— "

Peter hurried to pick it up, and placed it back in Micky's hand.

—-

Later that night, they all sat around the kitchen table.

"Couldn't afford much," Mike said, setting a plate down in front of each of them. "But Peter found these little gravy-cubes, so I figured, if I just added it to the rice…"

Hearing the gentle tap of the porcelain platter as Mike placed it before him, Micky leaned down to sniff it. "Well, it _smells_ okay," he volunteered, turning his head upward. He tried to focus his eyes where he knew the others were sitting, though he could never be sure if he was actually looking at them.

"Just be glad you can't see it," Mike said of his own cooking. "I'm sure it tastes all right, though."

Micky was treated to the primitive sound of both Davy and Peter shoveling forkfuls of the stuff into their faces, and then with their approving sounds thereafter. He hated trusting his friends' judgment over his own, but it seemed he really had to in situations such as this, where he was presented with no choice. In the past, people had called him selfish. Untrusting. Even so, he'd made it through life with his philosophies, and he wasn't so sure he wanted to change things up _now._

He could make a joke out of it.

In order to get another one of his senses in on the act before he resorted to taste, he pressed his fingers into the dish and remarked, "I gotta say, it's got an interesting texture."

Rice. Little bits of hot dogs, probably. Bits of something else mixed in… The shape was familiar Corn? Yeah, it was probably corn.

"Mick, don't play with it, just eat it," Mike said.

"How'd you get the corn?" Davy asked, confirming Micky's suspicions.

"They were about to throw it out. It expired yesterday."

"Ah, good find," Micky replied. Now satisfied with what he was eating, he felt around 'til he found his fork, and dug in. He found it not to be too bad.

"Well, we gotta work with what we have…" Mike said. Micky heard the fourth chair slide out, and Mike sat down. "Speaking of… Micky, are you gonna play drums in the first elimination round? 'cuz…"

"No," Micky answered. "No, I'm not ready."

No one said anything for awhile, and Micky continued eating, trying to pretend that they weren't all staring at him. Oddly, he could feel their eyes, even if he couldn't see them. Davy finally spoke. "But… You did so well."

"Mm-hm," Micky agreed, around a mouthful of rice. "You know, Mike, this really isn't bad at all."

No one said anything. He wanted them to, in a way, even if he couldn't explain to them just _why_ he didn't want to play in front of a crowd. He had the ability, he had the sense of space to find the drums, and he had the support. He knew he could do it, but…

Mike sighed. "Okay. Davy? You gonna be able to play our set?"

"But Mike— "

"Davy, you got it down?"

Davy was quiet for a moment, and then Mike said, "Good." Micky could only assume that Davy had nodded. At least he couldn't see the disappointed looks on their faces - especially Peter's, who would be heartbroken, probably. But Micky had his reasons for things, and… Well, maybe one day he'd be able to tell them.

For the time being, though, he could only say, "This stuff actually tastes pretty good."

If he pretended they weren't disappointed, it meant that they weren't. Because he couldn't see otherwise, and that was that.


	8. Long Distance Calls

"No? Are you sure?" Micky paused, listening into the phone for a moment. "Well, of course you would be. I'm just— Okay. Okay, 'bye."

Reaching out, Micky felt for the receiver, and set the phone down. "Two answering services, and one wrong number," Micky sighed. "Are there anymore on the list?"

Peter looked down the numbers he'd already crossed out on the paper in front of him. After working on this little project all morning, the selection was slowly dwindling to nothing. Most of the numbers led to nowhere, and the ones where Micky could get an answer were universally dead-ends, as well. Instead of answering the question, Peter asked, "Mick, why is she so hard to find?"

"How many times are you gonna ask me that?" Micky replied with a chuckle.

Peter whined, "why can't you just tell me?"

"I'm afraid my parents would hear."

Micky's parents lived upstate a couple hours. Confused, Peter tilted his head, and Micky said, "You're trying to puzzle that out, aren't you?"

"It's not very nice if you're making fun of me, Micky," Peter pouted. He still couldn't quite imagine how Micky's parents would possibly hear them. Perhaps it had something to do with the flow of energies between one person and another. If someone talked about someone else, the other person might sense the conversation and react accordingly. That's what Madame Rosalia from the television said, anyway. Madame Rosalia went off the air a few months ago for 'defrauding' people, though, so Peter wasn't sure he could believe anything she said, which meant he wasn't sure Micky should, either. He was about to say as much, when Micky said, "Look, we'll try one more. If it isn't her, I'll tell you. Promise."

"Uh, okay. This one says 'Wilson Cosgrove, Nebraska.' And the area code's 4-0-3." Encouraged by the prospect that he'd finally discover one of Micky's secrets, Peter rattled off the number, forgetting, for a moment, that Micky couldn't actually see the numbers he was dialing.

Still, the curly-haired drummer seemed to keep the individual digits in his mind, slowly turning the phone dial, until he'd achieved all ten.

He waited.

And waited.

Finally, he hung up, shaking his head. "It just rang. No answering service or anything. Just circle that one and I'll try it again later."

"Long distance, though," Peter argued. When Micky shrugged, he did, too, and circled the number.

When he saw the defeated look on Micky's face, despite the fact that he really wanted to ask _again_ why they were calling all these numbers, he said, "One more?"

Micky looked up, his eyes seeming oddly focused for a moment. Peter's heart jumped - perhaps his friend's vision had returned! But then the focus vanished, or perhaps it hadn't ever been there at all. The others said that Peter sometimes had too many dreams in his head. Too much wishful thinking. Still, the look seemed so deliberate… "Nah, Pete. I promised. Anyway, my sister's a hippie. I think my parents think she's going to school. I mean, that's what she tells them, 'cuz she's never home, you know? And I don't tell 'em any different. And I'm not gonna call 'em 'cuz everyone's supposed to think she's in school."

The answer was too quick. Too much of a blanket statement. Anyone else would have bought it, but Peter found himself doubting. The worst thing was, he could _feel_ the tiny be of truth in the statement that made the lie so easy to tell. "I don't see how being a hippie is any worse than being in a band that doesn't make any money," Peter grumbled.

Micky ignored the comparison. "Jody could always make me feel better, though. And I kinda need her right now."

Something in his voice moved the blond away from his irritation and closer to tears. The tone carried sadness and dashed hopes, with just a touch of desperation and failure. Since Peter knew him, Micky always had the strangest, most uncanny ability to get what he wanted, whether it be something simple, like control of the television, or something major, like the cute little brunet who worked at the ice cream store. He could sweet-talk his way into or out of almost any situation, but still, here he sat, blind, and without the ability to contact someone who really mattered to him.

But moreover, there seemed be be an almost sinister inaccuracy in Micky's words. Something didn't make sense or add up quite right - Peter couldn't be sure what it was, and the attempt to reason it out deductively was starting to give him a headache. Looking at the list, he narrowed his eyes.

At that precise moment, the front door flew open, which shattered the silence and caused Peter to jump so violently that he tipped over his chair. As he picked himself up off the floor, he peeked over the table, only to see Michael hurrying in their direction. "Guys! Guys, I got the details for the contest! Peter, what're you doin' on the floor? Sit proper. C'mon, now, where's Davy?"

The first-floor bedroom door opened, and Davy wandered out, rubbing his eyes. "Davy's sleepin'. Last time I checked, that wasn't a crime."

Hastily, Micky grabbed the phone and stuffed it under his chair. As Mike skipped over to grab Davy's wrist and drag him over to the table, Micky struggled to find the sheet of paper with the phone numbers on it, eventually hissing to Peter, "hide the list!"

Realizing the other guys would be pretty angry if they saw that Micky had been dialing so many long distance numbers, Peter folded up the paper and stuffed it in a pocket, just in time for Mike and Davy to reach the table.

"Okay, look, I got our info," Mike said. He sat in one of the empty chairs, while Davy moved the stuffed chimpanzee out of the other, and also took a seat, his head drooping.

"What time is it?" the Brit asked.

"Nine. Why?" Mike replied.

"What're Micky and Peter doin' out of bed at nine in the bloody mornin'?"

"Um…" Peter muttered. "I had my clock set to Florida time. It's noon in Florida." He hated lying - really hated lying - and usually, he wasn't great at it. But with Davy so sleepy, and Mike so distracted, he hoped they'd buy it.

"Oh," Davy said after a moment, and Micky offered Peter a relieved, grateful smile.

"So," Mike said, forging ahead, apparently oblivious to the little mini-drama between Micky and Peter, "I went to the radio station today to pick up our packet for the first round. Turns out, there's fourty-five qualifying groups, so they're gonna do the first elimination round over three days. We play on day two. Which is great, 'cuz we'll get to check out some of our competition before we go on.

"Wait, 'qualifying?'" Micky asked. "I thought whoever wanted to play could play."

"Well, there's no entry fee, if that's what you mean," Mike said. When everyone continued looking at him, he rubbed the back of his neck. "That's not what you mean. Of course it's not. Um, look. It's not too bad, I just left a couple things out when I was telling you about the thing, that's all."

"Mike." Davy, suddenly much more awake then he had been before, punctuated the name with an irritated click of his teeth.

"It's not like you all couldn't have read the flier," Mike said.

"Well, we're in it now," Micky remarked. "Just tell us."

Mike said nothing for a moment, then sighed, conceding. "Okay, I told you it was sponsored, but… KRIX is really going all out for this thing. So much so that they got a pretty decent grant from the medical school at UCLA for the whole thing. It's part of a study on music, kinda."

"That's not too bad," Davy mumbled cautiously.

"It's. Well…" Michael continued, wringing his hands. "In order to qualify, you had to provide proof that you'd received payment for at least five gigs, and provide ten references. You can't just be any band off the street, you know? They, um. They wanted professional and semi-professional bands playing this thing. They're selling tickets. There's going to be a lot of people attending each round." He let that sink in for a moment.

Even Peter, who wasn't really fond of processing information like that, found himself pondering the implications. He'd already given himself a headache that morning attempting critical thinking, after all, and his mind seemed inclined to continue along that route, until it prompted him to say, "What's the difference between a band like us, who gets minimum wage to play, and a band that charges hundreds per gig?"

Mike confessed, "There is none." After allowing the others a few seconds to gasp and mutter, he added, "We'll be playing alongside groups like the Gargoyles and Flower Child."

Peter knew them. They were both local, of course. They played more prestigious gigs - ones that the Monkees would give anything to attend. People who could afford them, though, _did,_ which left other groups scrounging for lower-paying affairs.

Mike cleared his throat, saying cautiously, "The silver lining is that you can't have any sort of recording contract as a group. I mean, I sold a song that one time. I disclosed it. They asked if you guys had anything to do with it, though, and I told 'em you hadn't. They said that was okay."

"Not much of a silver lining," Davy said. "As far as bands go, we're kinda the bottom of the barrel."

"Hey, that's not true!" Micky said. He sat up a little taller, looking at each of them with an expression that never quite met anyone else's eyes. "We're good. We can't help it if Hollywood is Music Central. I mean, we can play, and we can sing. Maybe this thing is gonna be our big break. Just 'cuz we don't get paid as much doesn't make us the worst out there."

"And we _qualified,_" Peter said. "I mean, that must mean something. People have paid to get us to play for 'em."

Davy seemed like he was about to say something else, but instead, he looked around at the others. Peter did his best to try to look as hopeful as possible, and finally, Davy smiled. "All right. All right, you win, Mick. I just hope we don't embarrass ourselves."

"I wouldn'ta entered us if I didn't think we could do it, Tiny," Mike said.

"Now, if we could get Micky to play the drums again…" Davy interjected quickly.

Surprisingly, it was Mike who answered. "No. We've been over this already. We're not changing the setup _now._"

Peter couldn't help a glance at Micky who seemed - if it was possible - almost _too impassive._

"You guys wanna hear the rules or not? 'cuz there's rules," Mike said. "Important stuff." He waited to make sure everyone was being quiet, then continued. "It's gonna be at the F. Fitzgerald Flanahan Auditorium in Santa Monica. The stage there is pretty big, and it's gonna be split in three. While one group is playing, one group breaks their gear down, and another group sets up, so there's no break in music. At least, that's the plan. There's a couple minutes for tuning, but that's all we get. Then we play a set of two songs. One has to be original, and one has to be a cover. And the cover's gotta be of a group who's had airtime."

"It's not like we'd cover the Gargoyles," Davy said. "Still, it's kind of a weird rule."

"Makes sense, if it's a study," Micky said. "I mean, maybe it's some kind of experiment to see if people are better at creating their own sounds, or mimicking someone else's. Or crowd reaction. Or…"

"Hey," Mike snapped. "I ain't about to ask _why._ All I know is, we gotta pick a cover and learn it in the next few days, so everyone start thinkin' on that. Lastly, for the first elimination round, everything is timed, and each group gets ten minutes total to play." He gave each of them a severe look. "That means we get ten minutes in the dark for setup. When the lights come on, we gotta quickly make sure we're tuned. And then we have ten minutes for teardown. Now, with _four_ of us, it usually takes longer than ten minutes to set up. With Micky not able to help…"

"Hey, I can help!" Micky argued.

"_With Micky being slightly impaired,_" Mike amended, "We need to practice set up and breakdown, too. We've got a lot of work ahead of us, and we have to get it all down to a science. But like I said, I wouldn't take us if I didn't think we could all do it."

It all seemed scary. They'd been in competitions before, but nothing quite like this. There would also be so many people there that the pressure to get it right was severely crushing. But hearing Mike's encouragement made Peter smile. He always knew there was a reason they'd kind of all collectively decided that Mike was their leader.

—-

"Again," Mike said. Even as he demanded another round of set-up-and-take-down, he flopped down on the couch, lying his head in his hands. "One more time and we'll have it. I know it."

They'd been at it since early morning. Not only had they decided on a Mamas & the Papas cover, but they'd been trying to perfect their setup and takedown. Invariably, something would go wrong, but surprisingly, the error usually didn't involve Micky, who'd become such a strange savant at feeling his way around the stage, that Mike actually gave him _more_ responsibility.

Still, none of them were used to moving so quickly. And even though they'd managed their setup a couple times within the limit, it wasn't consistent. And so, between rehearsing their cover piece, they'd attempt the impossible over and over again.

Their current average hovered around fourteen minutes.

Mike, flipping over and lying down, groaned. "Okay, I changed my mind. Take an hour, then we'll start over. I need to shut my eyes for awhile."

"And I need lunch," Micky droned. "Davy, you mind helping me?"

"I'm all for that," Davy replied, and the two hurried off to the kitchen, as if Michael would change his mind if they didn't retreat in a rush.

Peter, meanwhile, pulled Micky's list of phone numbers out of his pocket. Turning his back to the others, he unfolded it and gave it a once-over. While many of the numbers had been crossed out, there were quite a few - all scrawled in crayon from memory by Micky himself - that hadn't been called yet… And one in particular that was even crossed out before Micky the list to Peter.

"Hmn," Peter wondered. Glancing behind him and finding the other three still distracted, he pulled a blank sheet music template out of Mike's guitar case, and scrawled the pre-rejected number onto it. Tearing it off and putting the phone number in his pocket, he shoved the rest of the ripped paper back among the other things in the case, and turned his attention back to the existing list of numbers.

He found it amazing how Micky had adapted, even writing numbers and names with enough legibility so they could be read. Sure, it looked like a child had gotten hold of a set of crayons and done it, but there was a method to the widely-set, scrawled numbers and letters. For one thing, Micky had chosen to write in crayon because he could easily feel the waxy texture, which meant he could tell which part of the paper he'd already covered.

For another, Micky stated that when he could see again, he wanted to see all the things he had written, and admire all the pretty colors.

Smiling, Peter shook his head.

Hearing footsteps behind him, he turned and watched as Micky gingerly made his way out of the kitchen, with sandwich in hand. "Peter?" he asked.

"Over here, Mick."

The blinded drummer changed course, delicately picking his way up the steps onto the bandstand. He stretched out his hand, and Peter took it, guiding him forward. "You still have the list?" Micky asked, leaning close.

"Yeah," Peter muttered, folding it up again and pressing it into Micky's hand.

"Good. Gonna throw this into a bonfire on the beach or something, before Davy or Mike — Uh. Look. Just keep this between us, okay?"

Peter nodded, then said, for Micky's benefit, "Okay, Micky."

Micky smiled, took a bite of his sandwich, and pocketed the paper. Slowly, he descended the stairs and headed back into the kitchen, where he sat down next to Davy.

He sure was doing well getting around, Peter thought again. He reached into his pocket to touch the number he'd written there, making sure he actually had it. Despite all Micky's progress, he got the distinct feeling that he wasn't actually trying very hard to find his sister, whether he needed her or not.


	9. This Time

Unsure as to whether or not he was ready to leave the safety of the pad, Micky still allowed Davy to take his hands and pull him out through the front door - gently, just baby steps at any time. Since their fight, Davy seemed especially keen to help where he could, and Micky was inclined to let him. Though he wouldn't push his English friend over the edge again, Micky did feel that some compensation was in order for all the severe, debilitating mental anguish he suffered.

Really, the drummer was over the whole fight thing. It was in the past, forgotten, water under the bridge… But Davy didn't seem quite so ready to forgive _himself,_ and while the extra help came in handy at first, Micky was starting to feel worried over Davy's well-being.

They stepped out into the summer air, and Micky jerked, nearly pulling his hands away from Davy's. The shorter man managed to hold on, though. "C'mon, Mick. How're you gonna leave the house for the contest if you won't even come out onto the front porch?"

But the world outside seemed so big. Big and _invisible._

"Other senses, Mick," Micky said to himself. "Right, I got this."

Orienting himself ended up being more difficult than it had indoors, where sounds bounced off walls with predictable regularity.

"You remember what it looks like?" Davy asked.

"Yeah," Micky replied. Turning his head, he tilted it, tapping his toe in an attempt to get the sound to bounce off the wall running next to the door. The echo diffused almost entirely, and with Davy holding onto him, he couldn't go explore the house with his hands to confirm its location. "Davy, you gotta let go," he said.

"You sure? 'cuz…"

Micky smiled, managing to shake one hand free, which he used to pat Davy's shoulder. "Hard part's over, babe. You got me out the door. Just don't let me fall, okay?"

Sounding unsure, Davy said, "Yeah, okay," and let go.

Micky allowed himself a single second of terror at his unknown position in space, before he wrapped his mind around his surroundings, took a step toward the house, and reached out for it. When it wasn't where he expected, he took another step, one hand waving back and forth, until it contacted the brick wall. There. "Hey, Davy?"

Davy was at his side in an instant, taking his elbow. "Too much for today? You wanna go back inside?"

Slightly irritated, Micky shook free again. "Now cut that out! C'mon, I'm all right." Frowning, he continued to run his fingers over he surface of the wall, creating its signature in his mind. If he ever stood at this spot again, he's know it. The door couldn't be far away, either… Shuffling along the wall, he slid his hand over it until he felt the doorframe. "You didn't sleep last night."

It wasn't a question. It was a statement of fact.

When Davy didn't answer, Micky added, "In fact, you haven't slept since I tripped over the phone in the living room."

Gingerly, Micky stepped inside again, reaching for the door handle so he could pull it shut. Then, reaching out for the wall perpendicular to the door, he felt his way down that, taking small, cautious steps along the walkway. "You gonna answer me?"

"How d'you know?" was Davy's timid answer.

"You breathe different when you're asleep." Pausing, Micky turned, attempting to fix his eyes where he last heard Davy's voice.

Suddenly sounding defensive, Davy snapped, "Well if you hear me bein' all awake, you must be awake, too."

"I wake up a lot during the night 'cuz my head hurts. When I hear you awake, it just…" He sighed, taking a step away from the wall, and leading with his toes until they touched the grass. This wasn't so difficult. "You've made up for it, okay? I release you! You are _released!_ Poof!"

"I'm not a genie or somethin'. You can't just tell me to go away."

"Bet you were glad when I got up early yesterday, weren't you?" Micky pressed. "It meant you could finally catch a nap. How's that workin' out for ya?'

Finally conceding, Davy grunted. Micky could hear the tell-tale sound of face-rubbing, or so he imagined. "Not too well, mate, I gotta say. I didn't know you knew I was awake."

Growing slightly more confident, Micky allowed himself to move at a quicker pace. He tried to form a grid in his mind of the entire front yard. He also tried to picture where the garage was, and where the Monkeemobile would be parked in the driveway. As he mapped all this out, he neglected to account for the fact that there were several small boulders on the edge of the lawn to discourage people from driving over it. His foot contacted one, and he stumbled; too late, Davy reached out to catch his arm. The awkward balance sent them both sprawling across the grass, and for a moment, Micky wasn't sure if he was facing up or down.

"Thought I told you not to let me fall," Micky joked. When there was no reply, he frowned, reaching out for his friend. "Davy? You okay? I was kidding, look, I'm fine. Maybe a few grass stains on my elbows, but— "

"I'm here, Micky."

Heaving an exaggerated sigh of relief, Micky clutched at his chest. "Oh, thank God. I thought you'd tripped and fallen into a different dimension or something." He crawled across the lawn until he reached Davy, and sat next to him. "The bad news is, I don't know which way I'm facing anymore, so I'm going to have to ask you to help me back to the house. Probably should have tried to figure out where I could feel the sun coming from. I know it's out, 'cuz it's warm, you know? Might as well be night for me, though. You okay? Didn't break anything? I mean, my pride always takes a hit when I take a tumble like that, but…"

"You talk a lot," Davy interrupted, his voice heavy.

Narrowing his eyes, Micky turned toward the voice. It sounded wrong. Off. Using the closeness of sound to determine Davy's exact whereabouts, he leaned down until his face was close to Davy's, and listened to the breathing.

_Not breathing through his nose. The very soft sound of sniffles._ Curious, and to confirm, Micky reached toward the other man's face, his fingers carefully fluttering over an ear, then toward his cheeks, which were wet.

"You weren't supposed to know I was awake," Davy said miserably. "I just … I just need to fix what I did."

"So you stay awake? You got a weird, creepy way of showin' affection."

Despite himself, Davy chuckled, and gave Micky a gentle shove. "I'm afraid you're gonna get up in the middle of the night again, and fall on somethin', and really hurt yourself. So I've been clearin' the floor before I go to bed, and then I can't sleep, 'cuz I'm worried I forgot somethin'. What if I hadn't heard you fall that night and you'd hit your head again? I mean, you knew, Mick. You knew I was ignoring you when you called for help. That's why you didn't ask me that night, 'cuz you knew I wouldn't come."

"I didn't say anything 'cuz I thought it was about time I learned to get around by myself," Micky said. "You can't take on this responsibility all on your own. I had a rough time at first, but I'm gettin' better. If I promise to wake you up if I need to, will you promise to get a little rest?"

"You shouldn't have to 'get better' at it," Davy mumbled, voice still thick. "Your _eyes_ should get better."

"And I'm sure if you stay awake and never sleep again, they will," Micky replied, hoping his voice was dripping with enough sarcasm that Davy would get the picture.

"Aren't you scared?"

Micky was quiet for a long time, turning away and staring at what he thought was the wall. But depending on the way he'd ended up facing, it could have been the sapling in the neighbor's yard, or even the Monkeemobile. The truth was, he _was_ scared, but not quite for the reasons the others imagined. "You know me. I mean, we've known each other _forever,_ Davy. Since before we met Peter and Mike. You know I adapt."

"What if your sight doesn't come back?"

Micky heard Davy sniffle softly. The only reason he'd allowed himself to cry at all was probably because he didn't think Micky would be able to see it. As long as they'd known each other, he'd seen Davy cry so rarely that he could count the number of times it ever happened on one hand. Of course, Peter more than made up for _that,_ but that was beside the point. "You're really worried about this, aren't you?" Micky asked. "Uh. I dunno, I was kinda counting on it coming back at some point, but if it doesn't, I'm sure I'll figure something out. My mom always says, 'if is a big word.'"

The thought of his sight never returning made him feel weak inside. Like he wanted to curl up in a little ball and cry himself to sleep, where he'd be able to experience the wonderful world of color in his dreams.

"You're lying," Davy said. "You're lying. You don't just go from terrified to just fine in a matter of days. I know you're thinkin' about how scared you are, too, 'cuz your eyes are leakin' again."

Surprised, Micky dabbed at his eyes, only to find that Davy was right. "Dammit," he swore. "They always give me away."

"You said as much."

Micky laughed, though the sound didn't have much humor in it. "What a pair. I want to pretend I'm totally fine, and you want to pretend I'm not okay at all."

"Will you _please_ tell me why you won't play at the contest then?" Davy asked. "I mean, you've as much as admitted you're not all right, so… Tell me?"

The answer would be complicated, and a little embarrassing. In fact, Micky couldn't think of a decent way to word it, since it had little to do with him not being able to see anything, and everything to do with his pride and sense of worth. He wanted others to see him as a man that could do whatever he wanted, who only asked for help when he was too busy with more important things to do menial tasks on his own. Lately, he'd had to admit to his closest friends that he _did_ need their aid for the simplest things that would have been so easy to accomplish if he could see. While he'd gotten used to saying 'help!' to them, letting complete strangers see him in such a state of dependency would just destroy any vain notion of self-reliance that he had. Softly, he said to Davy, "I don't want them to know I'm blind."

"Oh. I guess that makes sense."

"Does it?"

"Yeah. You know, if you have to feel the drums like you do before you play…" Davy said, trailing off.

"Maybe if … Maybe if I find out that my sight's never gonna come back, then I'll think about letting the world know." He rubbed at his eyes again, finding that the tears had stopped. Thankful for that, and wishing to push himself out of this serious line of conversation, Micky got to his feet, holding his hand out to Davy.

"You sure?" Davy asked. A moment later, Micky could feel his friend's fingers close around his wrist, and pulled the shorter man to his feet.

"Yeah. Woulda been hard at first, but balance is a bit easier now," Micky said. Feeling like he should offer something in closing about the whole matter, he said, "Look, I'm scared, okay? Some days it's gonna be worse than others. Today, I just want to learn to find my way around outside, so I can at least make a decent showing at that contest. So, point me in the direction of the Monkeemobile."

"I'm not gonna let you drive, mate," Davy said. Nevertheless, he took Micky's shoulders and turned him until he was facing the car.

"Oh, wouldn't dream of it. But how often do I get to put my fingerprints all over the paint without Mike getting mad at me for it?"

"That's some dangerous territory you're steppin' into."

Gleefully, Micky said, "I know!"

—-

After Micky had his fun fingerprinting the Monkeemobile and subsequently found himself chased off by a rather irate Texan in a wool hat, he and Davy escaped to the beach, where they sat in the sand, facing the ocean.

The warmth on his face contradicted the darkness he sensed - he knew the sun was still up, but he saw no light. Granted, he couldn't actually _see_ dark, but his mind filled in that missing detail for him, and his imagination swam with a confusing blackness.

That was all okay, though. Many times before, Micky sat out on the beach under the moonlight, his eyes closed as he listened to the sound of the crashing waves. Usually that relaxing ambiance accompanied the chirping of crickets, but today, he heard the sound of gulls overhead instead. It was a different song, but not terrible.

"Hey, don't do that!" Davy warned. Rather abruptly, Micky felt his friend's fingers tangled in his hair. Davy pulled down, until Micky's face was nearly parallel to the ground. "You're lookin' right at the sun, man. What're you tryin' to do, burn out your eyes?"

Micky grunted, angling his face up again, toward Davy. "Not like I can tell what I'm looking at. Guess I better keep you around, huh?"

Davy laughed. "Yeah, knew I'd come in handy for somethin' eventually."

Turning his back to the ocean - and therefore, the sun - Micky held his hand up in front of his face, flexing his fingers. One hopeful part of his mind always seemed to sense movement when he did that, but it always ended up being his imagination.

He heard Davy turn around next to him, and face the same direction. Meanwhile, Micky moved his hand forward and back in front of his face, pulling it close enough so that he touched his nose, then moving it as far as his arm would reach. He repeated the motion, again and again.

"What're you doin'?" Davy asked.

It was an odd question, to be sure, but Micky sensed the real inquiry behind it. Davy wasn't asking for a technical answer - clearly, Micky was trying to _see,_ even by such an unconventional method. He repeated these exercises often enough so that the other guys would have seen him doing them at some point or another. Every time, despite the culmination of all the prior results, Micky would hope for something different - just a little bit of light, or a flicker of movement.

Davy's question involved the repetition.

Why are you doing this to yourself?

"The worst thing is…" Micky paused, pressing his fingers into his closed eyes. When he did so, the compressed nerves shot white-hot bands of color through his mind, which he could feel, but never see. He knew they were there, though, and if he could just get a fix on them again, just _force his eyes to find them…_ "I always think, 'this time I'll see something.'"

Davy said nothing. For a while, they listened to the ocean. To the distant drone of a ship's horn. To the wind whipping tiny grains of sand about their feet and across dried seaweed. Every little sound created a new experience - wonderful, but ultimately disheartening.

Concentrating on his memory of what the ocean's waves looked like, Micky tried to force himself to see them. It should have been easy - his eyes were there. They were open. There was light all around them! Surely he should be able to make himself see the god-damned water right in front of him!

…Then he remembered he'd turned away from the ocean, and was probably looking at their house.

So he tried to force himself to see that, instead. The beams, the stairway up to the bay window… Eventually, Micky started to feel the strain as a growing pain in his temples, and, sighing, he massaged his forehead.

"You're tryin' too hard," Davy mumbled.

"I know. Can I tell you a secret, though?"

"Mm?"

Closing his eyes, Micky quietly confessed, "I don't think my sight's coming back."


	10. Like Lightning

After venturing outside many more times in the following days, Micky declared that he was ready to attend the first night of eliminations, which meant they needed a plan.

Davy, having learned the truth about Micky's fears, tried to make the transition back into the population a little easier for his friend, which called for a pair of sunglasses with the darkest lenses he could find. That eliminated the issue of people seeing his eyes, which refused to focus. As it stood, Micky looked like some sort of weird, fluffy-haired owl who would possibly frighten children if given the smallest opportunity. After taking offense to the description of his appearance and insisting that he looked just fine, he still allowed Davy to fit the sunglasses onto his face.

"What d'you think?" he asked. The guys were standing in front of him. The figured they could come up with a sort of _theme._ Not completely dark and brooding, but something that deliberately made the statement, 'I don't care.' It seemed to be the easiest route to take, considering their lead singer would be standing almost stationary in front of the mic for their set of two songs.

"Almost," Peter said. "Hang on, I'll be right back."

He felt the clothes the guys had given him, which consisted of all blacks. Black button-down shirt, black pants, and a black sportcoat. Peter returned, and placed a black fedora on his head. Reaching up, Micky took it off and felt it. "What's this?"

"Naw, put it back on," Mike said. "Really brings the whole look together."

Smiling, Micky plopped the hat back onto his head. His curls stuck out in all directions, but it really did make the whole thing work. Davy smiled as well, clapping Peter on the back. It was a good idea.

"You ready for a test-run then?" Davy asked. "Everyone know the plan?"

"We're all set to get there early," Mike said. "We sit down ahead of time, and then you don't gotta worry about anyone gettin' in your way."

"Then we leave late," Peter added.

Honestly, Davy couldn't help a mild sense of dread. Even with his three friends around him, Micky would still have to navigate in unfamiliar territory with only hearing and touch to guide him. Earlier, Davy tried closing his eyes and feeling his way around the house without the use of sight, and he had to give up pretty quickly. It was frustrating, plain and simple. What Micky was doing was nothing short of amazing.

Everyone hesitated, stalling, unwilling to voice their concerns. For a moment, even Micky seemed particularly subdued, but it wasn't long before a wide smirk crept onto his shades-covered face. "C'mon you guys. You know us. With our amazing plan in place and all our fallbacks ready, the night is completely foolproof. So, of course, something is going to go catastrophically wrong as soon as we walk out the front door. We already know this. What're we delaying the inevitable for?"

Despite the fatalistic view of how their lives generally tended to go, the simple statement put everyone's minds at ease. Honestly, Micky had it right.

No matter how hard they tried to avoid it, something was bound to go wrong. It all came down to a matter of _when._

—-

Though keenly aware that the auditorium had been around for years, every aspect about it was, at least for Micky, brand new. Nervously, he touched everything on his way in, trailing his hand quickly along the wall as Michael and Davy guided him down the aisle toward his seat. One of them led, while the other followed, making sure that their blind friend neither tripped on anything or wandered off in the wrong direction. The entire interior of the building seemed maze-like, and yet, his mind quickly processed its layout as if it were creating a rudimentary map. He felt neither scared, nor lost.

"This way! Here's our row!" Peter called from close by.

They stopped. Micky took the opportunity to dig a toe into the carpet under their feet. Though still plush, he could feel that it had flattened with age, and could almost picture the frayed edges that would give way to the cement floor beneath the seats.

"All the way back here?" Mike asked. "It's like they seated us on another continent."

"It's not like we won't have good seats tomorrow, eh?" Davy asked, chuckling. "Backstage. Won't see much, but I bet we'll hear it pretty well."

"How far back are we?" Micky asked. He tried to gauge how much his voice echoed, but something was deadening the sound. He couldn't quite sense the location of the stage.

"Let's just say, if you could see, you'd be wonderin' why there were ants performin' on stage," Mike said. "Ah, well. I guess we're just here to hear the competition anyway."

Davy and Mike shuffled him into their row. Surprisingly, now that he could feel seats on either side of him, Micky didn't feel so completely lost. At least they gave him some idea of where he was in space, unlike walking down the open aisle. In front of him, Davy stopped again, took his hand, and placed it on his seat.

The moment he touched the fold-down chair, Micky felt an odd, uncomfortable stirring in the back of his mind, which he couldn't quite place…

"Right. There, you got it. Okay, Mick?" Davy asked. He paused, and Micky felt a gentle touch on his shoulder, before he continued. "You gonna sit?"

"Yeah."

He heard the others taking their seats - it was a gentle creak, the kind old things make when they're not quite old enough to put out to pasture. Narrowing his eyes, Micky sat, too, still trying to fight off the creeping discomfort that bothered him. Unfortunately, he couldn't quite place the anxiety to get rid of it. Turning to Davy, he asked, "What's this place look like?"

"It's nice," Davy said. "The lights are up now. Everything's kind of mahogany and gold, I guess. There's some curtains that are attached at the ceiling by the lights and they're like sails, 'cuz they kind of arc down to the walls. But not right over the seats. I don't think you could touch 'em, not unless you were twelve feet tall. And those are all colors. Green, blue, yellow. Oh, and the curtain's closed on the stage. It's red."

"There's a balcony?" Micky asked.

"Yeah, there's always a balcony. There's some gold scrollwork on the rails. Kinda pretty."

With the idea he had in his head about the size of the place, Micky could almost picture it. One day, he thought, when he got his sight back, he'd have to come back here and take a real good look at it, to see how close his imagination made it.

"Well, we got a few hours 'til showtime," Mike said, interrupting Micky's musing. "Hopefully you guys aren't too bored."

"We could play 'I Spy,'" Peter suggested.

Micky heard a muffled thud, then Peter said, "Ow! What'dya do that for?!"

"How 'bout a game we can _all_ play?" Michael grumbled.

Micky chuckled, easing back in his chair and trying to ignore the nagging sense that something just felt _wrong_ about the whole thing. Like he'd been here before - but not. No, there was something different about it for certain, but all the elements were there.

_The elements of what?_

"Okay! Try to guess what I'm humming," Davy said, then proceeded to hum just three little notes.

"What, by that?" Mike said. "Ain't no one gonna— "

"Yesterday. The Beatles," Micky interrupted.

"See? Fun!" Davy said. "Okay, try this one…"

Since they'd arrived quite early, the boys had plenty of time to create and refine their game. As they continued, more rules were added - or taken away, if necessary - until they had quite an interesting little competition going on. Amid an argument as to whether two different people could use two different parts of the same song in an attempt to throw the other players off, Micky noticed the fact that there were more voices in the auditorium. More people were arriving.

He could almost sense their closeness. Feel the warmth.

"You gonna go?" Peter asked. Micky felt someone shove his shoulder.

Go?

Oh. Take his turn. Micky almost felt relieved at the prospect of _leaving,_ though he couldn't say for sure _why._ "Yeah, just gimme a sec to think of somethin'."

As he tried to think of a song to use, his mind strayed back to the venue itself. Davy described it to him, but he saw something else in his mind. A lot of green, actually…

"Mick?" Mike asked. "Aw, never mind, it's probably best if we stop anyway." Micky could hear the smile in Michael's voice as he added, "To be continued. I intend to win this little game."

The brazen boast descended into a good-natured argument among the others, so Micky let his mind wander again, trying to place his anxiety. He couldn't even fathom for a moment why his mind guided him to see green. A sort of reddish brown — and above them, where there should have been beams and walkways and spotlights, he could picture— something…

"Full house," Peter said. "Wonder if it'll be like this tomorrow."

"I hope so," Mike said. "Guess that all depends on how well people do tonight."

The crowd carried a certain dim quality to its sound. Background noise. No words resounded loudly enough to hear distinctly, and no one person spoke above any other. It was like the buzzing of a hive of hornets, outside on a sunny day, people pressing all around, the scent of hot dogs and popcorn and beer, while the blue sky stretched above them and went on forever.

The sound system came online with a crack, and words filtered through Micky's mind: You never hear the one that gets you.

But he did. He had!

He ducked, but it was too late. Shocked, he could feel a tightness at the base of his skull that erupted into a kaleidoscope of color in his eyes. So bright! So painful! But, oh, if only he could touch those colors—

Were his feet moving? Was he back on the carpet? When did that happen? His vision still swimming in color, he ran up the aisle, even though he couldn't see where he was going. He collided with something soft, which he assumed to be another person, judging by the 'watch where you're going!' that reached his ears. Nearly falling, he placed his hands on the floor for support, running a few steps as if he were a wild animal before retaking his proper footing. The closeness, the buzzing, the crackling audio - it was all too much. If he didn't escape, he'd feel it again and again and again until—

He burst through the door, ignoring the clamoring of human bodies around him, all indignant that he'd rush through them without concern for the fact that they'd been there first. Matter, he thought, was tricky that way. No two pieces of it could ever occupy the same space, yet here he stood, trying to violate one of the key laws of physics in an attempt to just _get away._

Once he'd reached the lobby, someone managed to grab his shirt.

"No. _No!_" he pleaded. But the owner of the hands turned him around, taking his shoulders and rubbing them gently.

He longed for the colors, but they'd gone again, leaving behind a black nothing.

Who had him?

"Micky, stop," the voice said quietly.

Michael.

"Where are we?" Micky managed. His throat felt tight as he struggled to control his breathing. His face was hot, and his eyes stung. He remembered that at some point, they'd put sunglasses on him; taking them off, he let them drop to the floor.

"The Flanahan Auditorium in Santa Monica," Mike replied. Micky felt another hand on his shoulder, then the out-of-breath puffing of someone else - very close. Everyone, too close.

"I remember it," Micky said. "I remember… Standing at the railing, and I felt this… sharp pain."

"You remember?" Davy asked. "The doctor said you probably wouldn't."

"Well, I do. I can see the whole thing." Micky tried to catch his breath, but his heart was hammering, eating up whatever air he struggled to breathe in. "I thought— I thought somethin' must have stung me. I heard this buzzing, like there were bees or something everywhere, so I thought— I thought maybe one of 'em just got stuck… Stuck in my hair and… There were so many colors."

Someone said, "Is he all right?"

"Fine," Mike said. "He's fine, just… He's fine."

"What was that?" Micky asked. "Did he see my eyes? Where's my sunglasses?"

"Forget about that right now," Davy said, his voice laced with concern. "Just some usher, nothin' wrong with that— "

"Where's my glasses?" Micky asked again. He held out his hand, eyes wide as he tried to force his eyes to see again. Colors — Scarlets and golds. Mahogany. Blue. Something, anything!

One of the others pressed his sunglasses into his hand, and he quickly put them on.

"God, it hurt," Micky continued, voice barely above a whisper. "I was tryin' to say… I don't know. I was tryin' to tell you guys something, but I was falling. Couldn't understand why, either, 'cuz as far as I could feel, my legs were working just fine. Then… I don't know what happened after that. That's all I remember. There was pain and colors and then nothing."

"We're not there, Mick," Peter said softly.

He could hear people all around him, so he tried to focus on the words. Had they seen him panic? Did they see his eyes? "I know. I know, but I can picture it. That's all I can see."

"I told you what it looked like," Davy said. "Old walls, old stage, the balcony. C'mon, Micky, it's all right."

"You wanna sit out here? Just listen?" Michael asked. "Maybe when you hear the music, you'll feel a little better. An' I'll go get you some water or somethin'. Hang on."

Michael let go of his shoulders, but at this point, Micky was too tired to feel the vertigo of being on his own. He slumped a little, only to be caught by someone else and held close. He was similar in height, and had a very distinctive scent. Micky never really bothered to notice the _scent_ of his bandmates before, but now he felt as if he could almost tell them apart by their unique smell. It wasn't bad. Just a little weird.

"Pete, it's okay. I'm all right now," Micky said.

"Well," Davy said, placing a hand on the drummer's shoulder. "you went runnin' off like someone was about to murder you. And what's more, you did it without your eyes. We thought you were gonna hurt yourself."

"Or someone else," Peter said, his voice muffled in Micky's shirt.

"Or someone else," Davy agreed. "So let us be worried for a little while, all right? Maybe takin' you out was a bad idea."

"Nah, it was a good idea," Mike said. A moment later, Micky felt a cold glass pressed into his hand. Raising it up, he sniffed it, only for little leaping bubbles to tickle his nose. Turning his head to the side, he sneezed.

"That's Coca-Cola."

"Figured you could use the caffeine boost," Mike said. "You look tired."

"So how was this a good idea?" Davy demanded, his voice touched with irritation. "We sit down to hear a concert, and Micky has some weird… flashback. How is that at all _good?_"

"'cuz it means maybe it won't happen tomorrow," Mike said. "And we need you singin, Micky. You know that, right? We _need_ you."

He knew what it meant, all right. It meant that, this late in the game, it was too late to back out, because they'd never be able to put together another set list in less than twenty-four hours and have their two songs ready for the stage. Well, they technically could, but with the intricacies of setup and takedown added, they'd be crunched for time.

His mind started to piece together the proper scene, though. He could almost see the proscenium stage at the fore of the auditorium - even though he couldn't be entirely sure that it was that type of stage at all. It seemed like it should be, in any case. Instead of a green field, Micky could picture a bowl full of seats, and the sail-like tapestries Davy described earlier. Perhaps the worst was passed. Still, the thought of re-entering the theater at this point made him shiver.

"I'll be okay for tomorrow," Micky said, even though his mouth felt dry.

"Look, there's some seats out here," Mike said. "Just some regular old benches near the walls. And we'll be able to hear the other bands play. Is that okay?"

After a brief hesitation, Micky nodded.

—-

Halfway home, Mike turned, briefly meeting Peter's eyes. "How's he doin'?"

"All right. He's asleep," Peter said.

"Poor guy," Davy responded. "Thought he was ready to pass out right from the start of the show. Can't be easy having that memory creep up on you."

Mike grunted his agreement.

He had to hand it to Micky, though, despite the terror he'd felt, he still managed to stick it out, even offering some commentary on the other bands who played. Mike felt that the drummer was currently uniquely suited to comment on sound quality, since he really sensed the world through sound at the moment, and trusted Micky's assessment of each group. In the end, there were a few good ones and a few bad ones.

"Kinda felt sorry for the Jolly Green Giants," Davy said. "Didn't even get to play their full set, poor lot. I'm glad you had us practicing setup so much."

"I dunno, I felt worse for — what was it? Grim… Balloon?"

"I'm sure it wasn't _Balloon._ Grim _something,_ though," Mike said. "I know what you mean. Can't believe anyone's actually paid them to perform before."

"No, I think Peter's right. I think it was Grim Balloon," Davy mused. "How easy would it be to fake a reference?"

Mike shrugged. Some of the groups who played couldn't have had a steady gig in their lives. "They were pretty bad."

"I thought they gave it their all," Peter muttered. "You wouldn't want people sayin' these things about us."

"But this is a competition, Peter," Davy said, turning around and looking into the back seat. "The good bands win. The bad ones go home!"

"Then, yeah. I guess they were pretty bad."

Mike certainly hoped the Monkees wouldn't sound horrible when they took their turn. He had his concerns, especially with Micky's meltdown before the show even started. They couldn't force him to sing if he felt he couldn't do it, though, which left them in a bit of a bind. Tonight, Mike wouldn't be sleeping. Tonight, he'd be working on a back-up plan, just in case.

"What about Alphabet Stew?" Peter asked.

"Not bad," Mike said. "Micky really seemed to like their drummer. Said he kept a good tempo. Interesting tempo. They played the Beatles, though. Everyone was doin' the Beatles."

"'cuz people like the Beatles. Maybe we should have," Davy said. "Too late now, though, isn't it? We'd be starting from square one. And I think Micky's down for the count for the rest of the night, so he's not about to learn something new. I mean, we all _know_ all the Beatles songs, so maybe we could…"

"Nah, too late for that," Mike said. "Davy, if Micky can't do it…"

"He'll do it!" Peter said. "Don't talk like that!"

"_If he can't,_" Mike stressed, "Davy, you're gonna have to sing the cover. It's a pretty easy song. Can you do it? You're closest to Micky's range."

"And the drums? I dunno, Mike…"

They pulled into their driveway, and Mike looked back at Micky again. Even in his sleep, he looked so worried. So out of his element. Maybe a long sleep would do him good, and he'd be fine in the morning. Still, there was nothing wrong with preparing for the worst.

Sighing, he put the car in park and rubbed his temples. "Guys, we're doin' this for Micky. We have to make it work. There's no other option."


	11. It Begins

"You're up early," Davy said.

Standing next to the table, Peter set a bowl down in front of him and poured a good helping of Corn Flakes into it, then tried to decide if he was awake enough to trek all the way to the fridge for the milk. It was so far away!

Eventually, he sat down and just stared at the dry cereal.

"That bad, eh?" Davy asked. "Trust me, I know. Mike was up — "

"All night," Peter finished.

"And Micky slept like a baby," Davy chuckled. "Nothin' like passin' out dead to the world, eh? We'll be lucky if we can make it through setup, let alone our set _list._"

Peter grunted, picking at the cereal. Without any sugar or milk, it tasted kind of bland, but he still couldn't seem to will power into his legs to travel the four feet across the kitchen to the refrigerator. That meant he didn't have the inclination to get himself a cup of coffee, either. "We're all just nervous, I bet. It'll go fine. We're worried for nothing."

"Nothin'? You call Micky runnin' around blind _nothin'_? I've never seen him run that fast when he _can_ see." Davy put his head down on the table, sighing. "All night, Mike tuning that old acoustic guitar. I thought it sounded fine, but I think he just needed somethin' to do, so he kept tweakin' it. I gave up sleepin' sometime just before the sun came up and moved the amps to the car. Needed somethin' to do."

"I was just worried about Micky. You know, he tried to call his sister the other day." Peter pushed the cereal around in his bowl, took a handful, and let it trickle out of his fingers. Pop, pop, plip, pop. A few flakes landed on the table, and one or two even skittered their way onto the floor. "Sure wish I had some milk."

Reluctantly standing, Davy turned toward the fridge and hauled the door open. A moment later, he set the carton down in the center of the table. Peter stared at it.

"Yeah? Did he talk to 'er?"

"Nah, he couldn't reach her."

Staring at the carton, Peter wiggled his fingers at it, trying to concentrate hard enough to move it with his mind so it would pour itself. Eventually, he reasoned that with as sleepy as his mind was, telekinesis would just never work, and was an endeavor doomed to failure. Relenting, he dragged the carton close enough so that he could manually pour it, and while little droplets of milk splashed everywhere, he still managed to accomplish the task. Now he just had to figure out how to raise the spoon from the bowl to his face. Why did breakfast require so much _effort!?_

"Well, I'm not surprised," Davy said. "Not after their fight."

"Fight?"

"Oh yeah. Few years back, she decided to give up singin' to go to school. I never seen Micky so crushed." Davy pulled the carton back over toward himself, peered inside it, then raised it to his lips. "Don't tell Mike I'm drinkin' from the box, eh? He'd have my head."

"So that's why Micky is a Monkee? That's why he moved down here?"

"Nah, he prob'ly woulda ended up here anyway. But I don't think he and Jody parted on very good terms. He never even talks about her anymore."

"I've noticed," Peter said, digging into his now-soggy cereal. He couldn't wrap his mind around why Micky would say his sister had run off to become a hippie. Though Peter sensed right from the start that Micky's tale contained a whole lot of half-truths, it now appeared that he'd almost completely switched their stories. Living in the beach house and playing in a struggling rock-and-roll band didn't exactly make Micky a hippie, but it looked like _he'd_ been the one to run off, not the other way around.

"The worst part is," Davy said, yawning, "She was mad at _him_ for not thinkin' about school and such. Micky's smart, you know. Real smart. He could think circles around any of us. Y'know, strictly speakin', I'm not supposed to be tellin' you any of this. So don't tell him I told you, okay?"

"Oh, I won't," Peter said. He had no reason to, after all, since Davy kind of helped fit a few pieces of the puzzle together. His thoughts strayed to that phone number he'd taken from Micky's call list… If he and his sister fought so long ago, perhaps Micky wouldn't be inclined to take the easiest route to contact her. Despite all his intelligence, their drummer did like to make things a little more difficult than they had to be on occasion. What if that phone number was a direct link?

"Davy, do you think— " Peter started, but when he looked across the table, he saw that Davy was sound asleep, his head turned to one side, a thin trickle of drool trailing down to the table. Thinking it better to just let the English boy sleep, Peter bit his lip, pushed the bowl of cereal aside, and reached for the telephone.

—-

"Mick? Hey, Micky?" Mike poked the drummer's shoulder, then backed up a step. He was reluctant to wake the poor guy after the anxiety-ridden night out at at the Flanahan auditorium. Even so, it was getting close to mid-morning, and they all had work to do, starting with getting an answer as to whether or not Micky would be performing at their elimination trial.

That happened to be Michael's responsibility.

Lacking the desire to awaken his friend using any of the more conventional methods, Mike threw common sense to the wind, hopped up on the bed, and started jumping up and down on it as if it were a trampoline. It didn't take long for Micky to yelp and grab for the covers - either to throw them off or pull them back on, Mike couldn't be sure - and sit up, leaning against his headboard. "What the _hell_ is going on?" Micky gasped, blinking. Mike couldn't help checking to see if maybe the curly-haired young man was actually focusing again, but Micky's stare suggested a negative answer to the question.

Too bad.

Still standing on the foot of the bed, Mike exclaimed, "Good morning!"

Confused, Micky tilted his head up toward the voice and said, "What are you, on the ceiling or something?" before rubbing at his face. "Geez, don't think I'll ever get used to opening my eyes and seeing nothing. It's like someone throwing cold water on my face."

"Or jumping on your bed to wake you up," Mike said, hopping down to the floor.

"That, too. You could have just shook my shoulder or somethin'. Didn't have to give me a heart attack!"

Yawning, Mike sat down next to Micky. "Well, I didn't get much sleep last night. So you'll have to excuse the unpredictable judgment calls I'm bound to make today."

"Didja make me breakfast in bed? 'Cuz I can forgive everything, if— "

"Nope. Sorry."

Closing his eyes again, Micky leaned back, hand over his chest. His breathing slowly returned to normal; after a while, he even chuckled. "Didn't get much sleep, eh? Have some company, then?" he opened his eyes just long enough to wink, then closed them.

"Nothin' like that," Mike muttered, somewhat abashed. "I had to come up with a back-up plan, in case…"

He trailed off, but Micky didn't respond to the implication. For a moment, Mike worried that the other young man would take the out he'd just been offered and tell the others to go on without him. Honestly, Mike never saw anyone react to anything quite the way Micky reacted the previous night, so he couldn't help preparing for the worst.

"Why d'you do that, Mike?" Micky asked. "Write an escape clause into my contract, I mean. It's not like I'm gonna use it. Tempting? Sure. But I'll be all right. I think I can do it. Really. And if I can't, I'll let you guys know long enough ahead of time. Okay? I can do this."

"There's just one problem," Mike replied.

"Problem?"

"Yeah. We don't have a contract. We're kinda playin' it by ear ninety percent of the time, if you'll pardon the expression."

Micky smiled, shaking his head. He threw his legs over the edge of the bed, and slid his bare toes across the floor. A look of concentration crossed his face as he re-acquainted himself with the area rug. "Seriously, though. I wouldn't leave you guys out to dry."

Finding it difficult to put into words exactly what he wanted to say, Mike wrung his hands. He didn't want to draw attention to Micky's running out of the auditorium last night, but he still had to know, "What happened last night, anyway?"

"I dunno, Mike, it was weird. I don't even know if I can…" He sighed, looking down at his hands. Or, he would be looking down at his hands, Mike supposed, if he could see them. "I can't talk about it, okay? Just… I'll be all right for tonight. We'll be okay. I'll be okay."

—-

"Two hours."

"Two? That's it?" Davy asked. "Where'd the time go?"

Mike shrugged, gesturing randomly in a few different directions, before he shrugged and headed back into the house to make sure they'd gotten everything packed up in the car. Davy found the aimless flailing of hands to be a fairly accurate assessment, actually. It didn't seem as if they possessed enough time to finish everything they needed to finish. After breakfast, they rushed through their setup and takedown routines, getting their time down to a record low at just under the designated limit.

They ran through their songs, too. Odd, how their first setlist of only two pieces could have everyone so on edge - the guys barely spoke to each other, not because they were necessarily angry or irritated, but because their minds were all focused on their impending performance. No one had time to spare for joking around, not even Micky, who often did so in times of stress.

The deadline neared, too. It loomed only a couple hours away, and, like the previous night, the Monkees wanted to get to the Flanahan Auditorium early, so they could get Micky inside without too much of a fuss.

As Mike disappeared inside, Micky appeared at the door, wearing his all-black ensemble, head turning side to side. After a moment, he called, "Davy? You out here?"

With a deep sigh, Davy returned to the house, laying a hand on Micky's arm. "How you feelin'?"

"Okay. Little headache. Can you help me get to the car?"

Micky placed his hand on Davy's shoulder, and the shorter man led him forward, careful to avoid any obstacles in their path. "Headache? Like from where you got hit?"

Micky snorted. "Nah, not this time. Just too much goin' on. Nerves and all. And I know what you're thinkin' — Micky Dolenz? Nervous? Say it ain't so!"

Davy laughed. "Well, I still think you should get back to the doctor. Get a follow-up check or whatever they do."

When they reached the car, Davy peered through the window, squinting at the gear that took up most of the space. "Me and Peter'll sit back there. You should sit up front, I think."

"Yeah, about that follow-up checkup. It's not gonna happen, Davy."

Kind of stunned, Davy gave Micky a look, as if he thought the drummer's brain had leaked out his ears. It was one of his better expressions, actually, and a complete shame that it couldn't be appreciated. "You're crazy. That's crazy."

"Well, considering how much a brain scan costs," Micky said, "I'm doin' all of us a favor, not adding onto the bill. It's not like hospitals keep a running tab. Go on, pull the seat back. I think I can make it."

Not knowing what else to say, Davy complied, moving the seat out of the way, and then helped Micky hop into the car. Sure, he seemed to be doing so much better than he had been with getting around and using other senses in place of his vision, but the fact remained that his sight hadn't returned. Davy thought maybe that warranted a trip back to the doctor, just to check up on things. Unfortunately, Micky did have a point. The expense of something like that might far outweigh the benefit, especially if nothing changed. Frowning, Davy ducked into the back seat, sitting next to Micky.

"Don't feel too bad," Micky went on. "I'll get there someday. When we win this competition, I'll be able to pay my bills, then I promise I'll go back for a second check."

"When," Davy said.

"Definitely when," Micky agreed. He leaned his head back against the seat, raising the sunglasses and perching them atop his head, where they got lost in his hair. "And I just wanted to say, thanks for all the help, Davy."

Shifting uncomfortably, Davy smiled. "It's the least I could do, after I was a complete berk to you at first."

"Nah," Micky said. "What you're doin' is above and beyond the call of duty. It's hard to let you guys help, you know? Stupid little things, I mean. Stuff I should be able to do, like find my socks, or shave my own face. I'm just… I'm glad you came around." He paused, smiling. "Of course, I guess I'm taking a chance, letting you near my sideburns. They'd better still be even, Jones."

Davy gave him a shove as Peter slid into the front passenger's seat. A moment later, Mike joined them behind the wheel. He looked into the back seat, took a deep breath, and said, "Okay, y'all. Here goes nothin'."

—-

The day felt as if it consisted of little tiny snapshots of their lives. It moved so quickly that Mike had trouble keeping track of the time, even though he was keenly aware of their looming deadline. The hour hand on the clock always seemed to move faster than it ought, eventually leading them to this very moment, when they stood backstage at the auditorium, their gear scattered all around them in barely-organized chaos.

"We're next," Peter said. "We're next, you guys."

"You keep sayin'," Mike drawled, voice as cheerful as he could make it under the circumstances. What Peter meant, of course, was that they'd be admitted to the third partition of the stage in just a few short minutes for their setup.

The seconds ticked by. Micky, dressed in his black suit, Fedora atop his head and sunglasses on his face, wrung his hands. Davy paced nearby, oblivious to the other bands who were also waiting for their turn.

"We're _next,_" Peter said again.

Mike felt like he was going to lose it. The calm exterior, which he always tried to show the world no matter what came his way, started cracking earlier in the morning when he decided that jumping on Micky's bed was a good idea. It continued to shatter, bit by bit, until this very moment.

He giggled, "We're next."

The others looked at him. Even Micky, who had no ability to actually see him, turned to stare, raising his sunglasses so that Mike could get the best look at his incredulity.

"Best night ever!" Mike went on, relief dripping from every word he said. It didn't matter how they did at this point, because they'd done everything to ensure they had the best possible chance. If they screwed something up, it was because fate decided against them. Hah! "Here's what we're gonna do. We're gonna stop worryin', and just play. And God save anyone who gets in our way."

"Who's gettin' in our way?" Davy asked.

"That's not the question!" Mike said.

"He's completely barmy," Davy whispered, his voice full of wonder.

Their confused expressions turned to awe, just as the resident stagehand told them, "Okay, you guys are on for setup. Go," and walked off without so much as a passing glance.

"'Go,' he said!" Mike exclaimed. "All right. We're on. We're next! C'mon, let's do it!"

He liked to believe that maybe, just maybe, his enthusiasm affected the others to a point where their nervousness evaporated into the darkness of the auditorium, but his brain was so busy racing that he couldn't spare a thought for their states of mind. Mike was so exhausted that he simply started running on autopilot, setting up around the others as they'd practiced so many times before. Davy placed the instruments while Micky ran cords for the amps, perfectly within his element in the darkness. Peter set out their music, just in case, since their cover was unfamiliar to them. Quickly, as the band right next to them played a Beatles song in the brightness of the beaming stagelights, Micky and Davy assembled the drumkit in an amazingly short span of time.

It didn't have to be perfect. It just had to work.

And then, just as the applause rose for the band who'd just played, Michael turned and guided Micky to the microphone, before hurrying to his place and picking up the electric guitar.

Too quickly. His mind was too full. Thoughts raced through his head - would Davy be able to hold his own behind the drums? Was Micky going to panic again?

The cheering died down, and a voice said, "One more round of applause for Midnight in December!"

Michael heard a thud as the spotlights switched off, then immediately on again. Only this time, the audience would be looking at the Monkees.

A sea of faces appeared before him. In the bright lights, Michael could see the others, their eyes wide and excited, smiles on their faces. Never before had they played to a crowd this size, and it would be glorious.

Micky took a step back.

"WOO! ALL RIGHT!" Mike called into his microphone. "Man, what an audience, eh? In this auditorium here, that's definitely not anything like a baseball diamond or nothin'."

The non-sequitur made the audience chuckle a little. More importantly, Micky relaxed a little.

"I suppose that detached voice that's been yappin' at you all night is supposed to tell y'all who we are," Mike went on, giving Micky the opportunity to settle down a bit. Honestly, Mike didn't know how the curly-haired man was faring, but he could guess. "I'm gonna do that for him. We're the Monkees, and we got somethin' to say."

He hoped the tiny snippet of lyrics would bring Micky fully back around. Davy and Peter were staring, concerned, until Micky smiled, turned toward them, and nodded.

Having used up a precious couple of minutes, they had no time for their sound check. Maybe it wouldn't have made much of a difference anyway; in the end, Mike just had to hope, as he hopped across the stage like a lunatic and drew attention away from their blind lead singer, that their rendition of "California Dreamin'" appealed enough to the sea of faces out there in the audience. He made a fool of himself. He drew laughs at rather inappropriate times.

The music sounded superb. Amazing. And Micky's voice was spot on.

They were all on their game.

Of course, Mike couldn't help noticing how nervous Micky looked, or how he never got to a point where he actually appeared like he was having fun. The look suited him, though, as, straight-faced, he launched immediately into "She" when they completed their cover. They couldn't have planned it any better, really. Micky looked as if he'd always been the all-business member of their band, while Mike, who hadn't slept in well over twenty-four hours, took to clowning around on stage as if he'd been born to it.

And then it was over.

Reverting back to autopilot, Mike waved to the crowd as they applauded, but as soon as the lights went down, he tore through their setup like a tornado, pulling it off the stage as quickly as possible, completely in tandem with the other guys. He lifted up a bundle of wire just as Peter dashed under it. Micky hauled the amps to the stage door, where Davy quickly removed them. Mike grabbed the bass and his guitar, while Davy quickly broke down the drum kit, handing the individual pieces to Micky, who passed them to a stage hand.

As they finished, another group was already pushing past them to get on with their own setup routine, and Michael, thoroughly exhausted and drained of adrenaline, collapsed to his knees on the backstage floor.

—-

Voices crept into his consciousness.

"You think we should wake him up?" one of them asked.

"Well, yeah. We're gonna have to leave eventually. I think I should drive, though."

"I wanna drive!"

"You can't drive! You can't _see!_"

"Oh, right."

Mike opened his eyes, grunting softly. The overhead lights seemed awfully bright, and they made his temples throb painfully. "Guys?" he asked.

Davy's face appeared above his, smirking. "Ah! Sleeping beauty awakens! Good, we were gettin' worried that we'd have to carry your sorry arse to the car."

"Are we in? Did we make it?"

"'Did we make it,' he says," Micky laughed. "Of course we did, Mike. Look, see this red ticket here?"

Mike squinted at the laminated pass in Micky's hand. "That ain't red. It's yellow." Sitting up, he rubbed his eyes, trying to determine whether or not he was dreaming. "So we're really through to round two?"

"Really and truly," Peter said. He crouched down next to Mike, and helped the tall Texan back to his feet. "We're gonna celebrate. I know we still got a long road ahead of us, but…"

"It was a fifty-fifty chance," Davy said.

Mike's head was still swimming. The little dose of sleep was just enough to put him out of sorts. Still, it didn't take much for him to process the fact that they'd actually done well enough to make it through to round two - and all this with an exhausted band and a lead singer who couldn't even see that their round two pass was yellow. He smiled, laughing. "And I slept through the announcements."

"Figured we oughtta let you get at least an hour," Micky said. "If it wasn't for you, I think I mighta bolted. You deserved some sleep."

Mike sighed. "And I think I'm going back to sleep, too. Davy, you all right to drive?"

"Like you even had to ask," the shorter man said, spinning the keys to the Monkeemobile around one finger.


	12. Letter to the Editor

As it so happened, the waitress behind the counter at the small Santa Monica diner was exactly Davy's type. Granted, anything female happened to be Davy's type, so Micky remained unsurprised by the revelation. As Peter tried to pry him away from the counter and back to the table, Micky sipped on a coffee that was just a bit too strong for his taste. Next to him, Mike sat with his head down on his menu.

"We did it, Mike," Micky said.

Mike snored in response.

"I mean, I was kinda nervous, but you really pulled us all together in the end there."

In his sleep, Mike grunted something about ponies.

"Yeah, that's about what I meant." Micky chuckled, looking down at his coffee. With a quiet "hm" to himself, he felt around on the table until he found a small bowl in the middle. Pulling off the top, he held it up to his nose and was rewarded with the sweet scent of the sugar within. Smiling, he added a generous spoonful to his coffee, and returned the bowl to its home. He leaned back in his chair to enjoy the small victory, but before he could raise the mug to his lips, an unfamiliar voice interrupted him.

"Hey? Hello? Hi!"

Despite his inability to see anything, Micky automatically looked up toward the voice. Whoever it belonged to stood directly in front of him, maybe a couple feet away.

"I've been wavin' at you. Thought maybe you were asleep like your friend here. Can't tell through your dark glasses there."

The male voice carried an accent. Like Davy's, but not… This one had different pronunciations. Different idiosyncrasies. Friend. Frrriend. Herrrre. The man rolled his R's softly, almost imperceptibly, but the sound existed, separating its owner from the friend Micky had known for years. It was almost certainly from the United Kingdom in origin. North. North! Way north.

"Y'can't see, can ya?" The man said. Micky heard the sound of metal on tile floor as the man pulled out the chair directly across from him and sat down.

Uncomfortable and tired, Micky still smiled, raising his sunglasses. "What was your first clue?"

"Amazin'," the man said. "I saw you on stage at the Flanahan Auditorium. Never woulda know'd it. Uh…"

Micky heard the table squeak softly, then, the man took his hand and shook it. "Felix Macleod. Er… Sorry, maybe I shoulda asked. I'm not really familiar with the whole shakin' hands with blind people thing. Can I call you blind? I mean, it's not rude to— "

"You can call me Micky," Micky replied, finding himself amused with the man, despite the sudden handshake. "Micky Dolenz."

He could almost feel the excitement radiating from the man. Felix seemed to have an energy to which Micky could certainly relate, though. After all, before he had to learn to be _careful,_ he could almost literally find himself bouncing off the walls at the most inappropriate of times. Felix gave his hand another shake, before sitting back. Mike, meanwhile, muttered something about wishes and horses.

"He's stuck on ponies, poor guy," Micky said.

"Does he do that often?" Felix wondered. "Talkin' in his sleep, I mean?"

"Nah, he's just been awake for a long time. All night," Micky said. "Makin' backup plans. He's a worrier. Surprised he doesn't have grey hair already." Micky smirked, looking from Mike and back to Felix. "This is Michael Nesmith, by the way. Our fearless leader."

"Backup plans for what?" Felix asked. When Micky didn't answer immediately, he quickly added, "Just… sorry, it just seemed like you really had it together up on stage. Don't see why he'd need to, uh, keep himself up all night if…"

Micky glanced toward the counter, wishing he could see Davy and Peter, and hoping they might notice the uncomfortable situation in which he'd found himself. It wasn't that he didn't _like_ Felix. Micky was, after all, incapable of _not liking_ anyone. Having already determined that the man sitting across from him shared the same manic energy and seemed quite genuine about his questions, Micky actually felt a sort of kinship with him. Still, Felix unwittingly had him backed into a corner.

Sighing, the drummer rubbed at his eyes. Taking the sunglasses from their nest in his hair, he set them on the table. "Well, I haven't been blind all that long is the thing," he said. "Me and the other guys…" He gestured toward the counter, hoping he was gesturing in some semblance of the proper direction, "Went to an Angels game a few weeks ago. I got konked on the head by a foul ball. Haven't been able to see since." Wincing at the memory, Micky rubbed the back of his head, biting his lip.

"Oh, man! I remember that!" Felix exclaimed, his voice almost giddy. "I read about it in the papers, yeah? Did you know you were in the papers, Micky?"

Smiling, Micky said, "Honestly? If it meant losing my eyes, I'd rather not have been."

Suddenly somber, Felix muttered, "Oh, yeah, of course."

As he thought about it, Micky realized that Felix really was the first person outside the other Monkees and a handful of doctors and nurses that he'd spoken to about the blindness. He'd always been afraid that people would pity him - Oh, poor Micky. Let me help you with that, Micky. How terrible, Micky. But Felix, completely breaking the expectation, almost seemed to think the whole thing was rather interesting. Cool, even.

A connection was born.

"Nah, it's okay," Micky said. "Thing is, _last_ night, we came to see the other bands play. You know, checking out the competition. The seats filled up, you know? As more people got there, I started to remember the ball game. It was crazy! I actually thought I was there. Remembered the whole thing."

"Remembered it?" Felix said, perking up again. "You couldn't before? Oh, man. That's classic post-traumatic stress disorder. Your mind shuts out the whole thing! You're right, that _is_ crazy."

"You read a lot, don't you?" Micky asked, smirking. Oddly, discussing it caused an uncomfortable weakness in his knees. He felt a weird sense of _off_ness in his mind, and a tightness in his throat. He looked toward the counter again, hoping to catch Davy's or Peter's attention…

"This stuff is just really interesting to me. Sorry, I didn't mean to— "

Micky felt Mike stir next to him, sitting up. The tall young man, who'd managed to fold himself into a rather small chair, at a rather short table, grunted as he stretched. "Who's this?" he asked through a yawn.

"This is Felix," Micky replied. "He saw the show."

"Just came over to say how great you guys were. It was amazing. Glad you made it through to the next round. I'll definitely be there."

"Good," Mike said, his voice still groggy. "Now git outta here."

"Y— yessir. Sorry— Nice to meet you, Micky."

Micky heard the chair slide out awkwardly, the legs of it tapping against the tile several times as if it were almost tipping over. Immediately after, he heard a series of quick footsteps, before the door opened with a squeak of old hinges. A bell tapped against the metal surface, just before it slammed shut again.

Next to him, there was a thud as Mike set his head back down on the table.

"Whatja do that for?" Micky complained.

"He had buggy eyes," Mike said. "I didn't trust 'im."

Figuring that was all Michael planned to say on the matter, Micky went back to his coffee. Not only was it too strong now, but it was also cold.

Not even a minute later, someone else slid into the chair across from him. Micky hated not being able to see who it was, as, even without his vision, his first instinct was always to _look_. The strain of trying to see often led to headaches… And being in the dark - literally and figuratively - was really starting to irritate him. "Please tell me that's Davy and Peter," Micky muttered.

"Of course," Came the familiar Manchester accent. "Who else would it be?"

Micky sighed, rolling his eyes. "So, did you at least get her number?"

Peter laughed. "I think he tried everything. She grabbed a napkin and finally wrote something down…"

Micky heard the soft crinkle of paper as Davy unfolded the napkin. "It says, 'go away.' I thought I'd finally worn her down. I swear, guys. I'm losin' my touch."

Peter chuckled again, the sound welcome and comfortable. Davy's voice also put Micky at ease, as did Mike's soft snoring just next to him. Frowning, he angled his face down at his coffee again, and tried to figure out when meeting new people became such a scary thing in his life. He used to love making new friends. In fact, he met the Monkees by complete random chance at different times, and that was great fun! Now, he almost wanted to curl up at home and pretend the rest of the world didn't exist.

What was _wrong_ with him?

He had to get out of this funk. He could do it. After meeting Felix, he even felt just a bit more hopeful.

"You okay, Mick?" Peter asked softly. Leave it up to Peter to figure out that something was wrong, even though Micky still wore a very gentle smile on his face. The boy definitely possessed some sort of empathic gift when it came to the emotional well-being of his bandmates.

"I'm all right, Peter," Micky said quietly. He twitched a little when Peter put a hand on his shoulder, having not anticipated the touch. Still, he scooted his chair over a little so he could lean his shoulder up against the blond's. It felt better to know that he wasn't sitting alone, and since he couldn't actually see the others, touch was his next best option.

Another new voice jarred him from his thoughts. Female, this time. "Here you go, boys. Plate of pancakes."

He heard a quiet 'tp' in the vicinity of the center of the table. Suddenly realizing that he hadn't eaten all day and was therefore starving, Micky made a grab for one of the pancakes and stuffed it in his mouth.

"You know, Micky," Davy said from around a mouthful of his own pancakes. "This is just a thought— " He paused and offered a quick "Thanks, luv," which was probably to the waitress, before continuing. "Me and Peter were talkin' about maybe gettin' you one of those white canes so you can kinda get around a little better."

The statement was almost passive, just a conversational suggestion that may have meant nothing to anyone listening in. And yet, Micky could hear the collective intake of breath from the other three as they nervously waited for his response.

Agreement equaled an admission that he didn't necessarily want to make.

"Yeah," he said quietly. "Yeah, maybe in a couple months we can look into getting a service dog. Babbitt can't say no to that, y'know!"

Peter squealed in delight. They'd always wanted a dog.

Strangely, Micky didn't feel quite as hollow as he thought he would upon admitting that he may never see again. All the stress over his hesitance to say it simply evaporated in the face of the task that now faced him. Up to this point, he'd been operating on the assumption that his vision would return - but no more. Too much time already passed. He had to start accepting the cold truth.

"One thing, guys," he said quietly. He felt around on the table until he located his sunglasses, and perched them back on his nose. "No hiding things from me 'cuz I can't see. I mean it. If I'm gonna do this, you really gotta be there for me, okay? If there's somethin' I gotta know, you tell me."

"Sure, Micky," Mike said. "It's a promise."

Micky sighed.

Really, he'd miss color most of all.

—-

Two days after they made their appearance in Santa Monica, Micky seemed to be making improvements. He was more confident, for example, and much less frightened of the outside world. It was hard for any of them to admit that their bandmate's sight probably wasn't coming back, but while none of them would outright say it, they had to start thinking about how they were going to manage it.

At the diner, Mike made a promise he intended to keep. Looking at the letters to the editor in the daily paper, though, made him wish that he hadn't.

He rubbed his face, delaying the inevitable by idly scratching at the stubble on his chin. He read the column over again, noting the lack of an attached name. He even thought about getting another cup of coffee and accidentally spilling it on the paper, but Micky's words trickled back into his mind: "If there's somethin' I gotta know, you tell me."

"I'm a man of my word," Mike grumbled to himself. Folding up the paper, he trudged toward the bandstand, where the others were playing around with the drum kit.

"Hey," Davy said. "Micky's tryin' to make the sound better on the bass drum— "

"Kinda hard just doin' it by touch and sound," Micky muttered. He was lying alongside the drum, feeling along the rim on the outside. "Izzat Mike?"

"Yeah, it's me, Mick," Mike muttered.

"I'm thinkin' of taking over the drums again." Micky's smiling face appeared as he sat up, hazel-green eyes looking happier than they had in weeks. "If it's okay with you, I mean. I think I can do it." He turned his head a little, so that his ear faced Michael, who'd taken to fiddling with the paper in his hands. It made a distinct crinkle, a sound Micky immediately picked up on. "Is that the news? Who made it from the third night?"

No one said anything. Finally, Peter asked, "What's wrong, Mike?"

"Look, Micky, you asked me to tell you if… I mean, this…" Collecting his thoughts, he trailed off for a moment. "Someone wrote a not-so-flattering opinion about the Monkees as a letter to the editor."

Sliding out from behind the drum kit, Micky sat up, cross-legged. He frowned, asking, "What's it say?"

"Read it, Mike," Davy added.

Reminding himself that he _had_ promised, and he wasn't doing anything other than fulfilling that promise to Micky, he took a seat on the step and cleared his throat. "Okay. You guys aren't gonna like it, though."

Straightening out the paper, he started to read.

"_As a music connoisseur and a concerned citizen, I find it to be my civic duty to attend certain get-togethers - such as the current competition being held by KRIX and UCLA - to keep up to date on the current trends in musical entertainment. As most of you know, the grand prize at stake is a cool ten thousand dollars, and any and all of the groups up on the stage will do anything to get it._

_For starters, several nights ago I was treated to the sight of a poor young man, panicked out of his mind, fleeing from the theater seating. I followed to see if I could help, only to find that his companions were already there, comforting him. Thinking I'd stand by - just in case - for just a few minutes, I quickly discovered that the fellow who'd fled was blind! The poor boy. Still, the man's friends seemed to have him in good hands, so I went back to my seat to hear the other bands play._

_Imagine my surprise when, on the very next night of the competition, that poor young man was up on the stage in front of a crowd of thousands! Surely he couldn't have been there on his own free will. And then I remembered back to the conversation in the theater lobby the night before - how encouraging his friends were. How they crowded around him, clearly forcing him to agree to do something he didn't want to do. No wonder the poor boy panicked. Blinded and cut off from all visual reception, he was pushed onto a stage, unable to see the people looking at him, staring at his handicap even through the dark glasses he wore on his face… I couldn't bear it._

_I cried for that boy. His companions call themselves his friends - ha! They ought to protect him. Keep him safe from the people who will stare at him for his blindness. Clearly he didn't want to be there. Clearly, they needed his voice so they could win their prize. Moreover, they're using his debilitating, crushing handicap to win the pity vote from all you poor saps who can't separate your hearts from true talent. And what will they do with the boy once the competition is over? That is the question._

_I urge you, fellow readers, to take note of the name of the group. They call themselves The Monkees. For the sake of their poor, blind singer, I believe they should be immediately disqualified. And if for some reason they aren't, I further urge you to speak out against their use of this poor young man to accomplish their own ends._"

Mike lowered the paper to his lap, looking at the others - especially to Micky, whose face was, for the moment, unreadable. "Micky, you wanted me to— "

"I know," the drummer snapped. "That's not… That's not what you guys are doing. Is that what everyone thinks? _Is that what they think?_"

"Well, if they didn't, they do now," Davy sneered. "Who's this jerk who's writing this tripe, anyway?" He made a grab for the paper, searching over it with his eyes until he found the column. "Anonymous. Cowardly. Micky, you know we don't think like that about you."

"I know you don't," he said, voice clipped. "It's not _you_ I'm worried about."

Peter stood up, placing his hand on Micky's shoulder, but Micky quickly shrugged it off. "You're gonna have to do round two without me."

"Micky!" Mike shouted. "You can't let somethin' like this get to you. I only read it 'cuz I made a promise. If I knew you'd react this way, I wouldn'ta bothered! Startin' to wish I hadn't. This is all for you, Micky, so you oughtta have a part in us winnin' it!"

Micky stood, too, and shouted back. "It's about integrity, Mike! You of all people should know that. I can't— " At a loss, he almost aimlessly shook his head, fingers tangling in his hair. In the midst of all this, Peter, noticing that Micky wasn't quite facing Michael, helpfully turned him just a little bit so that they were eye-to-eye. "I can't let us win because someone's voting for us out of pity. 'Oh, geez, everyone! Look at all these obstacles the Monkees have overcome! Look at how brave their lead singer is!' Doesn't matter if I sing the alphabet backwards and off-key, does it, guys?" He turned to face each of them in turn. "That thing in the paper. Now everyone knows. Everyone. And the only reason we'd move forward in this competition now is because I'm blind. They feel sorry for me."

"No," Davy said. "That's not it at all. We're great, Mick. All of us together— "

Mike couldn't find words. In a way, Micky was precisely right. One anonymous jackass in the paper alerted people to the very truth they'd been hiding from the world. They shouldn't have had to hide it, but, unfortunately, the public just loved a good sob story. They ate it up. And either the public would turn on the Monkees for apparently _using_ their best friend, or they'd cheer Micky on simply because of his disability.

It had come to a point where his talent no longer mattered.

They could still win, but at the cost of the very thing that made them great. And Micky didn't want the money if it meant cheating it away from someone who may have been much more deserving.

Peter stood behind them all, pouting and confused. He looked just about ready to cry. Then again, so did Micky. Davy just looked angry.

Reaching for the paper, Mike took it from Davy, staring at the letter for a couple more seconds. Swearing loudly and profusely, he marched to the front door and threw the cursed thing out onto the lawn.


	13. In Which Michael has Had It

"Don't know— Don't— Shoot!" Davy dropped the drumsticks, which clattered to the floor. Rubbing his face, he shook his head as the guitar and bass meandered to a halt. "I can't sing and play the drums at the same time."

"Micky can do it!" Mike snapped. Davy found himself shying back from the intensity of his gaze. Angry and frustrated, he hadn't let up on Peter and Davy all day, even for a moment, and it was starting to take its toll.

"Yeah, well, Micky's _good at it,_" Davy returned.

"Guys, we were doing so well," Peter said quietly. "We made it through the whole first verse."

Mike set his guitar on its stand, and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. Davy immediately felt remorse for giving up as he had, but the truth of the matter was that Micky knew how to play the drums and sing at the same time because he'd been doing it for years. It took practice and talent. The other guys might say Davy had natural rhythm, but to actually apply it and sing at the same time was impossible in the amount of time they had to perfect it.

To make matters worse, Micky was the glue that held the other three together. He was the keystone, the linchpin, the only one of them who could turn a tense situation into something amazing and memorable. Since the scathing review of the Monkees appeared in yesterday's newspaper, he barely spoke.

Sometimes, he was even just as angry as Michael.

After leaning over to pick up the drumsticks, Davy looked across the room and into the kitchen, where the curly-haired drummer sat, nursing a coke bottle, staring silently at nothing. It was hard to tell if he'd even been paying attention to the rehearsal.

"Can we take five?" Davy asked.

"Yeah. Yeah, that's all right," Mike muttered. "Make it ten. I gotta think through some stuff."

Setting the sticks on the snare, Davy pushed the stool back, eager to escape from the kit, even for a little while. He hurt so much from sitting there for the past couple hours that he had to wince through his first couple steps. Blimey, did his back ever hurt, and he wasn't even midway into his twenties yet! If this was what he had to look forward to as he got older, he hoped someone invented a way to keep him young. Young and beautiful.

He pulled out the chair across from Micky, and sat.

"Hey, Davy," Micky mumbled, without looking up.

Surprised, Davy asked, "How'd you know it was me?"

Micky sighed. "The way you pull out the chair. The sound you make when you sit down. The sound of your shoes on the floor…" He trailed off and took a long pull from the bottle. Setting the Coke down again, he turned his head just a fraction to one side, an almost frustrated smile briefly appearing on his face. "…And that'd be Peter."

Davy looked up at the approaching blond and shrugged. Micky apparently felt the need to clarify, though, and said, "Much softer footsteps. Longer gait. Also, it couldn't possibly be Mike, because— "

He was suddenly cut off by the sound of a guitar string snapping, followed by a heavily-accented string of curses. Smirking, Micky gestured toward the bandstand.

"Yeah, well," Davy said. "I don't have any sort of prize for you, except a 'good job.' I thought you were past all this moping."

Micky grunted in some odd mockery of a laugh.

"Come off it now, Micky. This is ridiculous."

"Shut _up,_ Davy."

Surprised by the venom behind the voice, Davy completely lost any ability to form words. For a moment, Micky even bared his teeth, fingers tightening around the glass bottle. Peter quickly sat down between them, one arm around Micky's shoulders. Micky tried to shrug him away, but Peter wouldn't allow it, holding on until the struggling ceased, and Micky put his head down on the table.

"Look, Mick," Davy said quietly. "I'm sorry."

"I know," said Micky, voice muffled. "I'm sorry, too. Guys, I'm just _angry._ I want to play. I do. I feel okay, you know? But I can't. Not for the competition. Not when there's a prize involved."

It seemed silly to Davy that there were people out there that would support the Monkees simply because one of their members was blind. It seemed equally silly that people would accuse them of _using_ their friend to win. They'd been a group for a few years now - all of them - so it wasn't as if they'd pulled Micky on board just to win the competition. "Maybe there aren't a lot of people who feel like that person in the paper felt," Davy suggested. "I mean, it's just one little letter to the editor."

"Davy's right," Peter agreed. "If you want to play, you should play."

Micky remained silent. From across the room, Mike said, "Go on, tell 'em about the phone call, Micky."

The drummer ran his fingers through his hair, closing his eyes. "You two were still asleep. Mike was talkin' to me about maybe playing anyway just to spite that anonymous writer. That's when the phone rang."

"It wasn't even five in the mornin' yet," Mike growled.

"It was KRIX, lookin' for my side of the story," Micky said. "But they weren't, really. They kept asking me questions that were a little … I dunno. Off. Then she goes, 'Mister Dolenz, if they're using you to win, you just tell us.' And I hung up. I didn't know what else to do."

Everyone was silent. Mike approached a moment later, sitting at the table in the last empty chair. "They all want a story. Some sort of thing to make it scandalous. Don't matter if it's not. They got their claws hooked into the entire idea of the thing, and they ain't lettin' go."

"I shoulda told 'em that it wasn't like that at all," Micky said. "I could have said something. Anything."

"They put you on the spot," Peter said, patting Micky's shoulder. "That wasn't very fair."

"Yeah, but if… If that's what they think, wouldn't it be better for all of us if you played anyway?" Davy asked. "Show 'em that you're not just there to help us win? It's 'cuz you want to be there?"

Micky didn't answer.

After a few minutes, Mike cleared his throat. "Look, guys. I don't mean to change the subject, but it's time we organized a setlist. We got a little under a week to prepare, and without our drummer, we got some work cut out for us."

"Down to work, then," Davy said, glumly, looking at the table. He sneaked a glance over at Micky, who at least seemed eager to _help._

"So," Mike began. "Since we're not— "

He was interrupted by a knock at the door.

The four boys looked at each other as the rapping came again, louder this time. Doing a quick calculation in his head, Davy realized that it was precisely halfway through the month, which meant they had a payment they should have been making. The others seemed to realize this, too.

"Babbitt," Peter said. "I thought you said you wrote him about the rent, Mike!"

"I did, I did!"

"Well, we can't just sit here. The lights are on. He'll know we're home," Davy muttered, slogging to his feet and trudging toward the door. He felt roughly like a man on death row must feel, taking his final walk to the hangman's noose. They had no money to give - not even a little as a promise that they'd pay the rest. They were putting as much toward Micky's hospital bill as they could, and even that wasn't much. With all their concentration on the competition, the Monkees hadn't been taking any other gigs lately.

Their entire hope rested on winning that competition. For just a moment, Davy thought that it didn't matter if Micky's blindness won them the top prize. They so desperately needed it that they should take any avenue offered to them.

Integrity, though.

Sighing, he opened the tiny portal a third of the way down the front door. He couldn't see anything through it, except the top of someone's head… And it wasn't who they thought it would be.

"Not Babbitt," Davy whispered, relieved, before pulling open the door.

The man standing there didn't even give Davy the chance to say 'hello' before he started talking. "Phil Revis - Los Angeles Times. Following up on that Letter to the Editor in yesterday's paper. When did you lads come up with the genius idea to put a disabled fellow in your band?"

Davy, at a loss for words, just stood there, staring. From behind him, in a shout that could likely be heard down the whole block, Micky yelled, "TAKE YOUR STINKIN' PAWS OFF ME, YOU DAMN, DIRTY APE!"

Barking out a laugh, Davy quickly slammed the door in the reporter's face, turned, and slid down the door to the floor. "Well," he said. "At least you've still got the comedic timing of a god."

"If nothing else," Micky said, smiling to himself.

—-

They stood backstage at the Flanahan Auditorium. It was dark, although Mike's eyes adjusted long ago to the bustling of the other groups around them. Everyone was excited. The air was electrified!

And then, there were the Monkees, who stood off by themselves, waiting.

"Not… Not the most conventional of choices…" Peter groaned, worried. "I mean, we only use _that song_ for warmups, just so I can get my background vocals in line. I'm not… Well, I wouldn't exactly call me 'lead singer material.'"

"It'll be fine, Pete," Mike drawled. At that moment, he had his intense gaze leveled at the other bands. Twenty of them all together, half of which would end up cut from the lineup entirely in just a few short hours. They had to make it through, for their sake as much as Micky's. How, though, he'd asked himself days prior. How would they make it through when there were other groups here who had all their members with them, ready to play, ready to _win_?

He made a calculated risk then. Despite Peter's ability to pick up and play any instrument known to man (And probably some _not_ known to man), he wasn't their strongest singer. He knew it. The others knew it. His background vocals were often spot-on, though, and offered the perfect blend of bass to Micky's tenor. To that end, Mike wrote a single song for Peter to sing during warm-ups.

"Auntie Grizelda" was a fun song. It was full of silliness and contained a complete vacuum of anything remotely serious. It was one of those numbers that a person could shout at the top of their lungs without carrying a tune at all, and it would still sound perfectly reasonable. Good, even. Because of its style, because of the lyrics and music behind them, because the song was written _specifically for Peter to sing,_ he nailed it almost every time he performed it. Of course, this would be his first solo in front of an audience, let alone an audience of thousands.

"Sorry, Peter," Davy said. He smiled, putting a hand on the blond's shoulder. "Unfortunately, I can't figure out how to sing and play the drums at the same time."

"And we have to have two different people on leads. One per song," Mike muttered. "Don't know why they have to throw these arbitrary rules at us, but if we want to win…" He swore again; a moment later, he felt Davy's hand on his shoulder, too. "It's okay, Tiny. You know me. I'm just…"

"Angry."

"Yeah."

"I can do it, Mike. I can," Peter muttered. His voice sounded a little more hopeful. "But I'm nervous. A little stage fright is good, though. That's what Micky told me. Wish he was here."

"Me, too, Peter," Mike said.

The competition was being run like last time, with the stage partitioned into three sections. With a few more groups on one night this time - twenty, instead of fifteen - the show would run a little longer. The audience, though, had the option of booing a group offstage if they performed poorly for their first song. It was pre-judging, and also had the potential to cut the time considerably. All in all, this one night with twenty groups would take no longer than each of the previous three nights in the first elimination round. Theoretically.

"The Jolly Greens got booed offstage," Davy said grimly, looking to the others.

"I know," Mike said.

"We're next," Peter added.

"I know that, too," Mike replied.

He watched as the previous group quickly pulled their gear offstage in a well-rehearsed, orderly parade, one element after another. Without waiting for the stagehand to give them the go-ahead, Mike picked up his amp and shouldered past their guitarist, who snapped a "Hey!" in protest. Despite their surprise, Davy and Peter quickly followed. With only three of them, they needed to squeeze every last second out of setup that they could, and that meant jumping the gun a little.

"Let's do this, guys," Mike said.

He moved in the dark like he owned it, like he could manipulate its very being. Maybe this was how Micky felt, moving without being able to see where he went. In the next partition, a group called the B Shortcuts played some sort of powerful metal piece; it was hard to hear exactly what they were singing, but that may have been because Mike had so engrossed himself in setup that nothing else really mattered. He moved by feeling, trying to see things how his drummer would see them - with touch, rather than his eyes. It was strange and frightening and liberating, all at the same time, to not rely on something so primal and basic.

The B Shortcuts finished. The crowd cheered. They launched into their next song.

Mike took Peter by the shoulder, and the blond looked up, jaw set, and nodded.

Davy ran through their setup, checking all the connections. Checked to make sure each piece of the drum set was in working order and ready to play. He carefully pressed the pedals on the bass drum and hi-hat to ensure they were functioning, then sat down just as the music ended, and the crowd erupted into another cheer.

A voice came over the PA system: "The B Shortcuts, everyone!" Another cheer. The lights went down, and the detached voice blared, "And now, the Monkees!"

Suddenly bathed in spotlights, Mike squinted for a moment. In that tiny span of no more than a few seconds, someone in the crowd booed.

More voices joined the first.

Rather than wait for the dissent to reach a fever pitch, Mike quickly counted them in— "One, two, three four!"

And Peter, steadfast soul that he was, managed to perform "Auntie Grizelda" better than he ever had. Just a few words into the first verse, the audience seemed to take notice. Some of them would have heard the Monkees play before, but none of them ever heard Peter sing, so this was all new and very interesting. By the end of the first verse, Mike saw their smiles. Their cheers. And he hated them all for it.

And he hated them for making him hate.

They had to keep it together, though, as Grizelda ended and the audience cheered them on - not just sporadically, but powerfully, and Peter had the biggest grin on his face that Michael had ever seen. He looked back at Davy, who also wore a huge smile.

They had their chance, and Michael meant to take it.

It was a song he never meant to play, actually. Something he intended to keep tucked away, only to hum to himself when he needed to. In short, it was never for the Monkees. Never really for himself, or Davy, or Peter. He felt the sting of tears in his eyes as he leaned close to the mic and said, "This is for Micky."

And he sang a piece called "Keep On."

Ironically, it had no drums - it was comprised of he and Peter playing an electric and an acoustic guitar, while Davy took up a gentle bass underneath the harmony. It wasn't the way the song was meant to be played, but Michael had a message, and he meant to get it out there.

The lyrics, carefully written over a period of many months, urged their subject to keep living, no matter what anyone said or did to hurt them. That the rest of the world didn't matter, so long as you didn't let them undo your grand plan. It was a piece all about being yourself, despite what others told you you could or couldn't be. As the week wore on, and Mike played it over and over again in rehearsals, he saw Micky looking at them, smiling, shaking his head in that dismissively shy way. Mike hoped that it would eventually lead to Micky jumping back up on the stage, but the will had gone.

The song ended, and the crowd cheered. They had the audacity to get to their feet, raising their hands above their head to applaud the song that _they caused._ Incensed, and finally at his limit, Michael tore the microphone of its stand, which went clattering to the floor and fell off the stage.

"THAT SONG WASN'T FOR YOU!" he shouted, and as the sound system experienced rather loud feedback, which echoed from the walls despite their cloth covering, several members of the audience withdrew, covering their ears. "It weren't for you. You all killed a man's career."

Silence fell on the auditorium. No one cheered or spoke or booed or anything.

"It was for him. I dunno which one of you out there sent in that letter, but I'm sure you're sittin' out there right now. Well. You're a coward! All o' y'all are cowards! Booin' us jes' as soon as we get up on stage — what's wrong with you? You know you hurt someone so bad, you took the joy right outta music for 'im? And it was all 'e had, you _bastards!_"

He heard Peter gasp, and spared a look for the blond, before pressing on. "Here's the truth, honest. Without Micky, we're nothin'. And it ain't because he's blind, or because he can sing better than any of us put together. It's 'cuz when we formed this group years ago, he was part of it. And without him, we ain't the Monkees.

"So you oughtta be ashamed of yourselves, every one of you that meant to boo us offstage. We never used him. _You_ did. You used him to fuel your hate and … and your… I don't even know what you call it. There's always gotta be somethin', though, doesn't there? Somethin' to make a mess of things, while you hide behind your virtue and innocence. Well, he's sittin' at home, crushed, and here we are, without someone who means a good deal more to us than you all do. So go on, feel good about yourselves. Revel in your… your misplaced social justice. You sure saved him, you did. 'Cept that the only thing you did is— "

Davy pulled the microphone out of his hand, and Peter curled his arm around Mike's, tugging him back toward the stage door. But Mike's anger hadn't abated just yet. He screamed, loud enough to be heard, "YOU FAILED HIM! YOU _FAILED HIM._"

"Mike! They're gonna disqualify us!" Davy hissed. As they managed to pull Michael through the door and off the stage, they heard - very sparse at first, but picking up in intensity - applause, which were soon echoing through the whole theater.

"Our equipment," Peter muttered. "We have to— "

Davy looked back to the stagehands, many of which were staring dumbly at the Monkees while Peter continued to hold onto Mike, preventing him from running back onto the stage. "You! Break down our setup. Go!"

"You'll be disqualified," One of them said.

Mike finally righted himself, although Peter still held onto one of his sleeves. Looking back, still seeing red, he stared at the young man in the grey uniform. "Son, if they don't disqualify us for that, I'm sure they won't disqualify us for you pullin' down our equipment. Now _git._"

"I'll help," Davy said. He and a couple of the grey-suited stagehands ran back onto the stage.

After a short time, Peter said, "That's been building for a while."

Mike nodded.

"Mike?"

"Yeah, Peter?" He took a deep breath, closing his eyes. He may have just cost them everything…

"Even if… Even if they disqualify us, I'm glad you said what you did. I think people should ought to know when they've hurt someone."

Michael slumped, leaning against Peter's shoulder. "That's not like you, buddy."

"I know. I know it's not, but I really think it had to be said. And I think a lot of the audience thought it had to be said, too."

Davy peeked his head out from the stage door, his eyes wide. "Mike? Peter? You guys gotta come up here for a second."

Despite himself, Mike was curious. Narrowing his eyes and looking at Peter, he bit his lip and headed back for the door. As he neared it, he couldn't believe his ears. Quickening his pace, he skipped up the steps and onto the now-darkened stage, where he could just make out the outlines of the stagehands against the dimmed house lights. Over and over, in perfect rhythm, the crowd was chanting, "Monkees! Monkees! Monkees!"

One of the men in grey leaned over and said, his tone one of amusement, "I think you guys just bought yourself a ticket to the next round."

Over the PA, an incredulous voice said, "Ladies and gentlemen, the Monkees!"

"I don't get it," Mike muttered, as the crowd went absolutely wild.

—-

They drove home in silence, with a green, laminated pass in their hand. Despite everything, they'd made it through to round three.

As they pulled onto Beechwood Drive, Mike asked, "Do you think that guy Micky was talkin' to at the diner wrote that letter?"

"What guy?" Davy asked.

"Oh, he was sittin' at the table for awhile, chattin' with Micky while I was sleeping. Some guy named Felix."

"Oh. Sorry, mate. I wasn't payin' much attention."

Mike grunted. He had his theories. Well, it didn't matter now, in any case, since they had another chance. Unfortunately, they were now among the best of the best, which meant they were going to have to find a way to get all four of them back on stage. "We can't win without Micky," he lamented as he pulled into their driveway.

Immediately, Peter hopped out of the car and started off down the street.

Davy opened the door and started after him, only to stop when Peter waved a hand at him, without even looking over his shoulder.

"Let 'im go," Mike said softly. After another moment of deliberation, Davy sighed, and headed back up to the house.


	14. He's Gone!

It should have been a time for celebration, but after Mike's tirade on stage, the entire world seemed like a much more bittersweet place than ever before. In many ways, Davy was proud of the Monkees' leader for standing up for Micky. People should stand up for their mates, no matter what, even in front of a sea of hundreds of unfamiliar faces. They were all nameless watchers, who had no vested interest in any of the bands on stage, let alone any single member. It shouldn't have mattered what Micky did or didn't do, but to them, because of things set in motion by the pen of one anonymous writer, it did.

If no one brought their personal trials to light, no one would have cared. Micky would have gone on stage, and the public may have gone on to be none the wiser. Whether they won or lost, the victory would have been complete; as it stood, the whole thing just seemed empty.

But if Mike's anger brought out reason, it also brought out a certain wrath, unique to the tall young man from Texas, which lit up his eyes with intensity. As Mike stood, staring at the front door, Davy saw it - a temper that still burned just below the surface.

"You've said it all before," Davy warned.

Mike's eye twitched.

"You're not really angry at Micky. You know that."

He closed his eyes, offering a sniff in response. Davy really didn't want to interfere, but every once in a while, he felt it necessary to become the voice of reason. As patient and unflappable as Michael was, sometimes he found something worth fighting for, and igniting that passion in someone normally so even-keel was dangerous. He had no idea how to go about things, kind of like an awkward foal taking its first steps.

His heart, though, was always in the right place.

Sighing, Michael opened the door, stepped inside, and made a beeline for the spiral stairs. Without another word, he ascended as quick as he could, stepped across the upstairs landing and into the bedroom, and slammed the door.

"…I guess that means you didn't make it," Micky said glumly, from across the room. He sat at the drum kit, arms down at his sides, sticks held loosely in his fingers.

Davy watched up the stairs for another moment, almost expecting Mike to get over the whole thing and come back down. He knew what had Mike so upset, though - something they'd all been dancing around for some time. By disappearing, Mike was essentially telling Davy, 'you deal with it, because I can't.' That was probably all for the best, though, considering how badly his temper snapped earlier. "That's just the thing," Davy said. "We did. We made it through to the next round."

Quirking an eyebrow, Micky gestured up the stairs with one drumstick.

"He's just…" Davy scratched his head, trying to make his mind come up with something, anything, to adequately explain the whole thing. They'd all let Micky deal with his injury in his own way for so long, that things were bound to break sooner or later. Davy sensed the change in Mike as soon as Micky insisted that he wouldn't play in the competition. Mike's reaction was quietly, subtly snappish; it wasn't like their leader to just give up on any one of them, but he had, allowing Micky to shirk his duties as the Monkees drummer, and all over a reason which held no water.

Excuses. It was a good one. Micky even believed it. But he was selling himself short.

Speaking quietly, Davy asked, "It wasn't really all about integrity, was it?"

"Not about— What do you mean?"

"I dunno, maybe it was, in a way. I mean, you're right. You being blind, well, it does kinda change the game a little. But I know you, Micky. When you set your mind on somethin', you do whatever it takes to get it done. And whatever resources that people throw at you, you use 'em, whether they're legitimate or not. It's always a means to an end with you." Davy climbed the steps, standing just in front of the drums. "And that's why Mike's mad, 'cuz he knew right from the start that you lied to him. Told him exactly what you thought he wanted to hear, just to get 'im off your back. But I'm vain as hell, Micky, so I know vanity when I see it. It wasn't all about winning for the right reasons, you just didn't want all those people to see you helpless."

"Davy, don't…"

"And Mike went along with it, because he knew it bothered you. I knew it bothered you. But when the crowd saw us there, only three of us, they almost booed us off stage. And there's only a limit to how much he can take before he snaps, you know?"

"'Snaps'?" Micky repeated. "What d'you mean, 'snaps'?"

"Oh, he went to town on that audience. After we did our set, Mike lost it. Totally shamed 'em for making you feel so bad. It was brutal. I mean, I can't recall it all, but he said that without you, we're not the Monkees. Me and Peter dragged him off the stage, but he kept goin' on, even without the mic in front of 'im. All shouty. Totally unlike him. It was great. Though I thought he'd disqualified us."

As Micky sat there staring, Davy asked, "You okay?"

"Mike did that?"

"Yeah, he's really upset for you, you know?"

Micky nodded, looking down. "The whole audience?"

"Everyone," Davy said. "Then the crowd cheered. We couldn't understand it then, but I do now. It means there's more people out there who agree with Mike than who agree with that letter in the paper."

"Yeah, but, if he knew I was lying the whole time…" Micky started.

"Oh, I think he's been wanting to yell and scream for some time now," Davy said. "Besides, what he said was still all true, technically speaking. You were doin' so good, then one idiot with a pen ruined it for you. It wasn't fair. It set you back. Before we came in, I reminded him that he's really not mad at you."

Micky slumped a little, turning his face away. "Honestly, it kinda flip-flops between integrity and not wanting people to see me. There's no one reason." He started to say something else, a soft 'eh' issuing from his lips, but he shook his head and waved it off.

"Micky…" Davy said, drawing out the last syllable.

"Okay, okay," Micky muttered, running his hands through his hair. "You're right, though. Mostly. I don't want people staring at me."

"You love when people stare at you," Davy said, confused. "In fact, if they made an Olympic sport out of getting people to stare, you'd win the gold medal. You're _good_ at it." He could recall many times when Micky did things just to get attention. His ability to make weird expressions in inappropriate situations was, hands down, one of his very best skills. He could do almost any voice imaginable, with any accent he wanted. When he imitated Michael's southern drawl, he'd have everyone cracking up, Mike included. "Besides…" He paused, reaching out to take Micky's chin in his hand, giving it a light shake. "With a face like this, people can't help staring."

Smiling weakly, Micky pushed him away.

"It's different," Micky continued. "I dunno what it is. People'll make a big deal out of it. They already are. I don't want the attention to be on that. I don't want them to see… that. I want them to see me, and what I _want_ them to see. My music, my sense of humor - or lack thereof, according to some." His eyebrows lowered and he bit his lip, before adding, very quietly, "I mean, Davy, you're the one who told me my eyes looked weird in the first place."

Davy stared. The drummer's strange eyes were fixed and dilated, with a certain dark quality to them that made Davy uneasy. Once upon a time, he made a verbal attack on Micky in a moment of temper, but regretted it from the moment he let it tumble from his lips. After all that time, it appeared that the one slip-up - those horrible, angry words - stuck with Micky even more than the heartfelt apology that came afterward. Realizing that "I'm sorry" couldn't undo all that insecurity, Davy, feeling a heavy weight on his shoulders, sat down on the step and rested his elbows on his knees. "You said we were okay."

"Well, if we're talking about lying…" Micky muttered.

"I think I said 'empty,' besides."

"Oh. Well that's much better. That changes everything."

Having no reply, Davy could only continue sitting on the step in silence, as his friend quietly tapped out a cadence on one of the floor toms. Things meant so much coming from the people you loved, even more than the words from strangers or random acquaintances off the street. It made sense that all this might have stemmed from one thing that Davy said, which he barely remembered.

Struck with an idea, Davy asked, "Hey, Mick, has anyone actually told you what your eyes look like? I mean, really sat there and described them?"

Frowning, Micky shook his head. "And… I'm kinda afraid to ask. I keep thinking… thinking about what you meant. That they must be pretty bad…"

"They're not, though," Davy said. He turned on the step and looked back, but finding that he couldn't get a close enough look at Micky's eyes, he stood up and took the other man by the shoulders. "They're just not focusing. Still — I dunno, some sort of lightish brown? Greenish a bit. A little crossed. Your pupils are really big, though, that's all. That's why I said they look empty. From a distance, they just look black. But from a really far distance, I bet you wouldn't even be able to tell."

"Like on stage."

"Yeah, like on stage."

Micky's smile of relief broke through the mask of stress he'd been wearing since he decided to sit out the second phase of the competition. "Oh, man, the way you guys were acting, I thought they were red or something. Yellow. Black. All scarred and gross — "

"How would they be scarred? You got hit on the head!"

"I dunno, no one ever said."

"You filled in the blanks."

"Well. Yeah."

Davy leaned over and hugged his friend. "They're just normal, really. You don't exactly look at people the same anymore, but they're still just normal. I promise."

—-

It was chilly, and Peter was tired.

Sitting on the bench, still in the same clothes he wore to the elimination round on stage in Santa Monica, he wrapped his arms around himself. In the span of a single night, he sang in front of an audience for the first time, left his friends behind him without a word, and hitch-hiked for the first time ever, in his whole life. Worn out both emotionally and physically, Peter couldn't help letting the wind get to him. At least this place had a few walls scattered about, though, which shut out the strongest, coldest breezes. He figured if he stayed here all night, he'd be okay come morning.

Just after he pulled his arms out of his sleeves and into his shirt, an older gentleman stopped in front of him, glanced at him, then checked an old brass pocket watch. "What're you doin' out here, kid?" he asked.

"Waiting."

The man looked back at his watch again, his severe expression darkening. "Ain't even midnight yet. Why don't you go inside, over there?"

Peter looked toward the dark building, with its dark windows. It was a squat little place, with bare walls both inside and outside. Its nearly-featureless interior only contained a short counter, with a black bulletin board behind it that looked kind of like a menu. The whole place had, at some point, fallen into disrepair, with spiderwebs and roaches lurking in all the shadows. "I thought… I thought it was closed. It looks closed."

"Just ain't used that much. Go on inside."

Wishing he wasn't alone, Peter huddled closer against the arm of the bench and shook his head. The man pressed his lips into a thin line and sighed, putting the watch back into his pocket and going on his way.

—-

Something bothered Micky as he lay there in bed, listening to the sound of Davy snoring across the room. It wasn't that he told the truth, though. Actually, telling Davy how he felt about his eyes really took a weight off his chest, though admitting that to Mike would probably be a bit more difficult. The more he thought about the earlier conversation, though, the more he realized that something was missing…

So he lay there with his eyes open, going over his recollections with a fine-toothed comb.

In the past, all his memories were in color. He could everything play out in his mind's eye, whether it be from a month ago or from years and year ago. Every little minute detail in his environment had bright, blessed color in it. Things stood out in vivid reds and blues… And the motion! He was always drawn to movement and how everything worked together in an environment to produce a picture that he could remember.

His new memories, though, presented a problem.

He relied on his eyes for so long, then when he became trapped in the dark, he couldn't build a mental picture of anything. To see nothing, not even blackness, frightened him beyond words. He was so scared, that he continued trying to see through that void, just to picture any color or scrap of movement that he could. It always failed, though. Always.

Then, his other senses finally woke up. Sound, smell, touch… And even taste, at times, all worked together to allow him to form pictures in his mind. Those images were skewed, though… Sometimes in the wrong colors. Brighter than they should have been, but at least they existed in a way where he could piece things together in order to form some sort of valid memory. Of course, without sight, the other senses came in much more powerfully, and Micky wasn't used to that. He sometimes had trouble sorting them out in a way that made sense, when he thought about them later. In this case, he remembered the door opening and then closing when the other guys came home from the competition. Immediately, he heard Mike's booted feet stomp up the stairs, and Davy's softer footsteps approach the bay window. They spoke; he could form a picture of Davy's face, and from there, he pieced together the rest of the house, in an impossible array of greys and yellows and greens.

Mike and Davy.

Mike. Davy.

Sitting up, he asked the darkness, "Where's Peter?"

He went over the memories again, and only recalled two sets of footsteps. With his ears picking up everything around him, he surely would have remembered hearing another person in the pad. Yes, the more he thought about it, the more he realized that the thing missing was Peter. Davy would have said something if Peter was in trouble. And he _definitely_ would have said something if Peter went out with a girl after they played.

Narrowing his eyes, he thought about the many circumstances in the past where he and his bandmates found themselves in borderline supernatural situations. This 'Monkee Magic' as they called it, could range from a simple, well-timed change of clothes, to the extraordinary, where Micky himself had become a werewolf. Maybe… Maybe something made Davy and Mike _forget Peter!_

Before he could ponder over the logic of this and come up with something a bit more rational, he leapt out of bed, and was immediately, painfully reminded about why he had to remember to pick up his clothes when he tripped over them on the floor. After untangling himself from his shirt, he crawled across the room, pulling himself up alongside Davy's bed. Violently shaking his friend awake, he shouted, "Where's Peter?!"

"Peter?" Davy asked.

Oh no. He really _did_ forget!

"Peter! Taller than you, shorter than Mike, blue eyes, kinda dark-blond hair?"

"Yeah, I know! Peter. He went for a walk when we got home." Davy grunted, grouchy, and pulled the blankets over his head. "He was upset about Mike yellin' and such."

"Yelling?"

Davy turned. In an almost compulsory gesture, Micky reached out to touch, feeling his friend's face to determine that Davy was, indeed, looking at him. Not too long after, Davy sat up, taking Micky's wrist and gently guiding it away. "Yeah, at the audience. You remember."

"So he didn't yell at Peter."

"No, why would he?" Davy asked. Micky heard the sound of hands rubbing against bare skin, and pictured Davy rubbing at his eyes. "And I'm sure Peter's okay. He just doesn't like people being angry. He'll be back by now, I'm sure, safe in his bed."

Micky still couldn't help a certain sense of worry that crept over him, as if something was still wrong. Davy must have seen the look on his face, because he asked, "D'you want to go check?"

Micky was just about to say that he did, when the door burst open. The suddenness of the crash when it struck the wall surprised Micky enough so that he jumped, falling backward to the floor, as Mike's voice reached his ears. "Peter's not here!"

"What? Where is he?" Davy asked.

"He's gone!" Mike replied. "Your shoutin' down here woke me up, and I happened to look over. He ain't in his bed, and he ain't out here. He never came home. Door's still unlocked — he woulda locked it up if he'd been here at all. He ain't the sharpest crayon in the box sometimes, but he ain't stupid, neither."

Micky righted himself, hands locating Davy's nightstand so he could pull himself to his feet. Still holding onto the bedside table, he felt around until found the bedside clock. Giving it a tug, and inadvertently freeing it from the wall plug with a quiet _pop,_ he held it up so that the others could see it. "What time is it?"

"Almost two," Mike said. "It's not like Peter to be gone this long."

"You said to just let 'im go!" Davy spat. His tune was accusatory, and Micky sensed another fight creeping up on them. Davy liked to fight. He liked to push blame at other people when things got stressful, because it made him feel like he was doing something. They all felt helpless, though.

"I thought he'd just go around the block or somethin'!" Mike replied. "Or up the beach, or…"

Debating the point wouldn't solve anything.

"Guys!" Micky interrupted. "What are we gonna do?"

For a moment, the other two were silent, then Mike took control. "Well, he can'ta gone far, and he's probably okay. You know Peter. Doesn't matter if he keeps smilin'… Sometimes, things just bother him. Davy, you look around the neighborhood, I'll look up the beach, and…"

His voice grew quieter as he left the room. He heard Davy's footsteps travel after him, and Micky followed them both, with a bit more care. By the time he reached the living room, Mike was returning to him, and a moment later, Micky felt something pressed into his hands. Mike explained, "It's a flare gun. If Peter comes back, go out and fire it so we can come home."

"But… I'm blind," Micky said incredulously. It wasn't quite on the same level as asking him to drive a car, but still…

"Well, o' course y'are. Point it upward, not down. You'll be fine. The alternative is letting Peter handle a firearm. Flaregun or not, I'm not sure I'm ready to take that risk. And he prob'ly wouldn't want to touch a gun anyhow."

Oddly, he couldn't recall them ever having a flaregun in the house. Perhaps it just appeared as they needed it, which actually made a strange amount of sense, since that seemed to happen quite often, whether they had an explanation for it or not. He couldn't see the thing, but it felt solid and cold and metal, just like a real pistol of some sort, which meant he had to trust that his housemates were actually giving him something that didn't fire off live rounds. Relatedly, it said a lot of Mike's trust in _him_ that he'd give Micky the flaregun in the first place.

He heard the door open, and quickly called, "Michael."

"Yeah, Mick?"

"I'm sorry I lied to you."

Soft footsteps neared him, and Michael laid a hand on his shoulder. "It's fine. I know you needed some time to sort things out, but you could have just told us why. Really. And Micky…"

"Mike, c'mon!" Davy called. From the sound of his voice, he was already halfway down the walkway.

"Er," Mike said. "Hold that thought. And hold down the fort. We'll be back, hopefully with Peter."

The weight of Mike's hand lifted, and just a few footsteps later, the door closed. Alone in the house, Micky carefully made his way over to the kitchen table, set the flaregun down, then perched himself on the couch to wait.

-

Author's Note: I just want to thank everyone who's been reading the story so far. This is one of the longest ones I've written on my own, and I'm enjoying the process, too. Thanks for all your reviews.

As I said in a previous A/N, which I've since deleted so I can phrase it better, I already have the end of the story written, so I know where it's going. I don't do particularly detailed outlines, so I can allow a little wiggle room for myself along the way, but I can say with certainty that there won't be any romance in this story. It's about friendship between the guys, which I enjoy writing a lot more than physical attraction or romantic love.

That said, I hope you still enjoy the rest of it!


	15. Making Tracks

Peter breathed into his hands to warm them.

At some point, his little sanctuary became a bustling mini-metropolis. The squat, dark little building didn't look so uninviting anymore with a few lights turned on inside, but the uneasiness Peter felt from the hardly-imposing structure was replaced by the uneasiness he felt from being surrounded by so many people he didn't know. Strangers, all of them. He should have told Mike and Davy — but no. They would have tried to stop him, and it was high time he actually did something to help.

Everyone else was trying to fix the situation by putting a bandage on it, but Peter knew a bit more about healing than the others liked to give him credit for. He couldn't say he always went about stuff like this in precisely the _right way,_ since he'd found himself in a sort of roundabout loop all night long, but here and now, Peter could honestly say that he was proud of himself for what he accomplished. All the correct ducks were in a row, so to speak. Or, most of them were, anyway. There were a few problems remaining, which he couldn't find a way to resolve. Briefly, he thought this would all be much easier if he had some sort of phone he could carry around with him.

He laughed at the thought of a world full of mobile phones, with people trailing along cords behind them everywhere they went. The world would be positively full of little grey wires! Chaos! And what a mess, too.

Yeah, mobile phones would never catch on.

He finally stood up, stretching the cold out of his joints and muscles. Even though the temperature wouldn't get warmer for another couple hours, he found the cold a little easier to tolerate now. Maybe it was the nervousness… Yes, that must be it, he thought. His heart seemed to be beating a little faster, and his knees were a little weaker. It was almost time.

The others must have been anticipating it, too. They looked back and forth, toes stepping just a bit too far over some invisible line. The old man with the pocket watch passed through their ranks several times, with sterner and sterner warnings for every instance he had to chastise them. Like a flock of geese, they kept returning to their vigil. Stubborn. Perhaps calling them 'goats' or 'jackasses' would be better.

Peter liked goats, though.

He didn't like geese. They pooped all over the beach.

He paced far out of the way, because he felt restless and couldn't bring himself to sit any longer. A quick check of his watch revealed that he had just a little time to burn off some of that energy. Mike would have told him to stay in the lights if he were here, so Peter decided that he wouldn't wander too far into the very, very late night that surrounded him. Of course, Mike also would have told him never to hitchhike to get here in the first place, because hitchhiking could be dangerous.

Strolling away from the crowd, Peter carefully avoided the shadows, purposely skirting past the dark halo around a lamp with no glow.

"You runnin' from somethin'?"

Whirling around, feeling the cold, prickly sensation that the voice was directed at _him,_ Peter was completely surprised to find that it was only some father, playing with his little boy.

But the words were so clear. It almost seemed —

Amid all the chatter, why did he pick _that_ up? So many conversations swirled around in his head that he couldn't keep track of any of them, let alone a single statement spoken from the center of a crowd. And besides, he wasn't running. Sure, he was skittish and a bit nervous, but just because he had to get here so quickly that he hopped into a car with a perfect stranger didn't mean he was _running._

He supposed it would be okay if he was, though. A lot of people had to run at one point or another in their lives, even Peter, who'd run all the way to California once upon a time. But no, it wasn't quite like that. It was more like…

…Waiting.

Put more at ease by that decision, Peter allowed himself to relax just a hair. Leaning against the dark, squat building, he picked at the buttons on his shirt, eyes scanning the assembled throng every once in a while as if he would see someone he recognized. After a time, it became a game - he would think about how he would describe the people he saw to Micky, because Micky sure liked hearing about colors. He'd get a wistful, distant smile on his face when a color came up in conversation. Don't eat that banana - it's still green. Are we wearing our red shirts or the black ones to the next round? That song only ever comes on the radio anymore once in a blue moon.

There were all kinds here that Peter could describe, like the father in the weathered but well-kept suit, chasing after his little boy in mis-matched, hand-me-down clothes in bright blues and greens. Or the woman in the pink dress who'd been sitting almost motionless on a bench for the past hour. A heavyset man held a suitcase, the leather of which glimmered and glistened in the cold, unwelcoming light of the lanterns.

Frowning as he pondered over the descriptions, though, Peter realized that he would never be able to string enough words together to accurately convey to Micky the beauty of the world around him.

And that, Peter knew, was why he was here.

He resumed pacing. Right foot up, down. Left foot up, down - squeak in the heel he never had fixed. Turn — what if he closed his eyes? Tried it all without his sight? His attempt ended in failure when he crashed directly into an older lady in a dingy teal overcoat.

"Sorry. I'm so sorry," he said.

The lady didn't reply, but gave him a scathing look and continued on her way.

How did Micky do it? Over the past couple weeks, he'd gotten so _good_ at navigating himself around without his eyes! Peter - who, despite being a man, realized that he often thought like a child - couldn't wrap his mind around the complexity of Micky's achievement.

"That's why you're here," he reminded himself again.

He stared back at the crowd, trying to put all his other senses together to come up with a more accurate picture. The people were rushing along the invisible line, always looking for something, wearing their coats and fancy boots. Some of the ladies had pretty hair decorations, which were all different colors, woven into braids. Bright colors. Colors! No!

Despite the fact that Peter played music by trade, he found the sounds around him dull and boring, only worth the effort it took to ignore them. The conversation sounded like a dull thrum, never ending and droning on and on and on. Now and then, he'd hear the bright note of a giggle, or the deep bass beat of hurried footsteps along the pavement, but it all seemed so very _bland._

But then, he detected a sustained whine underneath the aimless chatter. The old man with the pocket watch rushed past the crowd again, this time taking their shoulders and pushing them backward, where they stayed. At the same time, a light hanging from the awning changed from green to red, and then Peter heard it. "The train!" he said to himself, smiling for the first time that night.

Peter hurried forward, joining the waiting people in front of him. Since he'd hitchhiked to the station all those hours ago, so many more arrived to stand between the line of benches and the sheer drop off the platform onto the tracks. It seemed almost dangerous - there should be gates or fences or something to keep people safe. Despite his worries, though, the crowd wasn't too densely grouped, which meant they all stood little chance of being accidentally pushed to their untimely demise. Even so, he warily looked down at the tracks, then to the North, where he could make out the lights on the front of the oncoming train.

"All right! For the last time, step _back!_" the man with the pocketwatch shouted, passing in front of everyone again. Peter wondered if it would, indeed, be the last time, or if he'd go on shouting the same thing over and over. "Four-forty-five train from Berkeley'll be here on time!"

Instead of waiting in the crowd, Peter retreated to the row of benches, pacing along behind them as the giant locomotive's brakes squealed, bringing the entire train to a very slow halt. It wasn't anything particularly special. The cars were old, and its silvery finish was chipped and dulled with age. As it coasted into the station, the people waiting on the platform finally took the advice of the stationmaster and backed away from the tracks.

It sat there for some time before the doors opened, and the occupants began to trickle out. At this point at night, the people who appeared on the platform were bleary-eyed and tired, each of them hauling their suitcases along as if they were infinitely heavier than they looked.

Unfortunately, Peter had no idea as to the appearance of the person he was looking for. He couldn't do much with a name, after all, and the mental image he created in his head was likely way off. Perhaps, after many of the gathered people left, he would be able to find her by process of elimination.

With his hopes resting on that one single idea, he still paced, looking into their faces for some hint of connection or recognition. Peter always felt that two people who were destined to meet would at least have some sort of _attraction_ to each other, like that 'sixth sense' he heard about on television sometimes. After all, he met his fellow Monkees in such a way - when he looked at them, he knew they were the ones. His band. His brothers.

But time and time again, he met the eyes of total strangers.

Beginning to panic as the train pulled away from the station, he wondered if he had the time right. He wondered if maybe she hadn't come; maybe he should have been at home, near the phone. The entire thing was really all done on a whim, coordinated from a payphone outside a beachfront gas station.

Urging himself to concentrate, and reminding himself that he'd double and triple-checked the times, Peter continued his search.

He almost passed right by the young woman with the glasses. In her hand, she held a piece of paper, the writing upon which Peter didn't initially process in his quasi-panic. Something about her, though, caused Peter to double-take, as his eyes fell upon the somewhat wild, curly brown hair. It was then that he looked at the note, which read, simply, "I'M LOOKING FOR PETER TORK."

She saw him smiling, and smiled back.

Relieved, he sighed, and wrapped her in a hug. He liked hugs. For a moment, she seemed just a little confused by the somewhat forward affection, then she returned the embrace, chuckling.

—-

Felix Macleod hesitated outside an ornately-carved oaken door, before taking a deep breath and pushing it open.

He liked this office. It seemed roomy, while being full of little interest pieces - maps, old books, toys, photos on the walls… Since the same man occupied this office for the past thirty-some years, it made sense that he'd want it to be as homey as possible.

Without introduction, Felix set the collated stack of papers on an old oak desk, which, he noted idly, matched the color of the door. As the old gentleman sitting at the desk lowered his newspaper and looked up at him, he nervously ran his fingers through his hair.

"It's all there, Sir," Felix said.

The man flipped through the pages, as if considering them carefully. "This isn't like the last one," he said, a smile working at the corner of his lips. "This one has actual promise. This one could really— " He trailed off, continuing to page through the stack. "This is exactly what I hoped I'd get from you, boy. I'll submit it immediately."

Unable to help it, Felix broke into a grin. This would almost certainly lead to his big break, and all because of a chance meeting with a blind musician in an old, run-down diner.

—-

Expecting a rather severe backlash for disappearing earlier, Peter cautiously opened the door, purposely keeping as quiet as humanly possible. Peering in through the crack, he saw Micky, sitting on the edge of the couch, nervously bouncing his feet against the floor. As the drummer's shoes subconsciously tapped out the percussion part to "Last Train to Clarksville," Peter, still reluctant to enter, pushed open the door just a little bit farther.

The hinge squeaked.

Immediately, Micky jumped to his feet, his head swiveling in all directions. Noting the unfocused eyes, Peter bit his lip, looking back at his companion, who curiously waited in the shadows.

"Whozzat?" Micky asked. "Mike? Davy? Didja find him?"

Feeling a little guilty, Peter finally stepped into the house and said, "It's me, Mick."

First, Micky's shoulders relaxed, then, he tensed again. Feeling his way around the couch, then ducking down so he could reach for the end table and feel his way around that, too, he headed for the door. Again, Peter looked back at the girl, whose curiosity had turned to hurt. Reaching out, Peter gently took her hand.

"Peter! You've been gone for hours! What time is it?" Micky demanded. His hands gently wove through the air until they found a walk upon which to anchor themselves.

Wincing, Peter looked at his watch. "Uh. Well. It's — technically it's _tomorrow._ I mean, if I left _last night,_ I'd be— " He paused when Micky narrowed his eyes, then supplied, "Quarter after six."

Micky ran his fingers through his hair, eyes still staring, unfocused, even as the girl sneaked into the pad and shut the door behind her. "Davy and Mike are out lookin' for you, Pete. You can't just run off and— Jesus. C'mere." He held out his arms, one hand finding Peter's sleeve, and pulled his blond friend into a hug. "What were you doing out there? We thought you'd been eaten by sharks or something!"

Perhaps for the first time ever, Peter struggled out of the hug, and took Micky by the shoulders. "Look, Micky, I had to go somewhere, and it was important, because…" He stopped mid-sentence, looking back at the girl again, who stared at Micky with an unreadable expression. "Because I wanted to fix… I wanted to fix you, and Mike, and me and Davy. Please don't be mad, okay?"

He hated the look on Micky's face, because the blindness robbed the drummer of a certain spark. Instead of meeting Peter's eyes, he stared somewhere off to the left, fixated on empty space. "There's someone else here," he said quietly, ear turning toward the girl.

"Don't be mad," Peter repeated.

Remaining still for a moment, Micky appeared to concentrate on the slight rustling of the girl's jacket. His head turned this way and that, as if the extra twitches would give him some advantage toward figuring out the mystery person's identity. He turned his chin up, jaw set, frustration evident on his face.

Peter looked at her, while she stared at Micky. Her mouth was slightly open, one hand poised in the air in front of her, as if she meant to reach for him. She knew, though. She _said_ she knew. Why was she acting so hurt and confused? Maybe it was the way Micky was looking through her, instead of at her, without even a hint of recognition. She looked horrified, or crushed, Peter couldn't really tell which.

"Who's here?" Micky said suspiciously.

She reached out and took his hand. At first, he tried to pull away, but she held on. Eventually, he worked his fingers over hers, then up her arm and to her face, his expression remaining one of concentration. He felt her hair, then concentrated on her glasses for a little while. The whole time, she continued staring into his eyes, as if expecting him to _see_ her.

But he never did. He couldn't.

Micky continued touching her face, disbelief evident in his expression. He would feel her ears, then her nose, then her ears again, as if he couldn't _quite_ believe what his sense of touch told him. When his fingers brushed across her cheek again, though, he pulled back as if stung, and Peter could see that she was crying.

"…Jody?" Micky asked.

"Yeah, Mick. It's me," she said, a smile finally appearing on her face as he threw his arms around her.

All things considered, Peter felt that his unplanned trip to the train station ended up being perfectly justified.


	16. But I'm Tired!

After searching for hours, Michael was on his way home to call the police to report a missing person, which meant he wasn't too far away when a bright red flare lit up in the early-morning sky over their house. In spite of the fact that he felt so exhausted that he could barely put one foot in front of the other, he pushed himself into a slow jog. Micky wouldn't have fired off the flare if Peter wasn't home.

On one hand, Mike was angry. He spent almost the whole night worrying, walking around the city at night, and trying to flag down passing cars to ask about his missing bandmate, when Peter appeared to have come home on his own. On the other hand, he couldn't help the sense of relief that flooded over him as he reached the front door. Automatically, he picked up the newspaper and tucked it under his arm before opening the door.

His eyes fell on Peter almost immediately, and all anger left him. The mere thought of yelling at the boy completely evaporated as he threw his arms around him. "Glad you're okay, buddy," he muttered, before stepping back and smiling. "Me and Davy were out lookin' for you all night. Where the heck did you end up?"

Before Peter got a chance to answer, though, Davy stepped through the bay window door, looking every bit as tired as Mike felt. "Saw the flare," Davy said, searching until he found Peter. "Ah, there you are, mate. Don't ever do that again, deal? I'm gonna sleep for a year— And Mike, if you tell me we have to practice _today…_" He let the statement taper off, pointing a warning finger at the black-haired young man.

"No, we can take the day off," Mike replied.

After brushing sand off his feet, Davy stepped inside, rubbing his eyes. "At least tell us where you were, huh?"

"Oh…" Peter said, nervously fiddling with his fingers. "Well, I went for a walk, and I was gonna come home, but then I walked past a phone and I thought that … that I could make one call and everything would be okay. But then I had to go to the train station because— "

Micky spoke up from the kitchen. "Peter called my sister," he said.

At the kitchen table, Micky sat next to a girl who had an uncannily similar appearance. Her hair was longer and pulled back, but it still had a wild quality to it, as if no brush could ever quite tame it. Though her face was decidedly feminine, it had a striking resemblance to Micky's, right down to the same green-hazel eyes, which smiled at Mike from behind a pair of glasses. She was holding Micky's hand in both of hers.

"Josephine Dolenz," Davy said. "Honestly, I never thought I'd see you again. How've you been?" He hurried from the bandstand to the kitchen, and Jody stood up to meet him in a hug.

"Still no, David," Micky said dryly, smirking. Davy released her, and she sat back down, taking Micky's hands again.

"I was just sayin' hello," Davy returned, giving Micky a gentle shove.

But Mike couldn't stop staring. He couldn't find words for the longest time, until his brain finally decided that the very best thing for him to say was, "I didn't even know you _had_ a sister, Micky!"

For some reason that Mike couldn't figure out, both siblings looked quite uncomfortable immediately after the statement. Just as he was about to ask what was wrong, though, Davy took him by the shoulder and turned him around. "C'mon, you guys. Let's go outside for a bit. Let these two catch up."

"But I'm _tired,_ Davy!" Mike complained. He struggled for a little while, trying to get around the shorter man, even once looking longingly toward the spiral staircase which would lead up to his bedroom. To salvation. To blessed unconsciousness. But Davy was adamant, eventually managing to push him up the bandstand steps and all the way to the bay window. For a moment, he thought he just might be able to turn enough and escape, but as soon as he tried, Peter was there, smiling, gesturing out into the cool morning air.

Sighing, finally giving up, he stomped onto the deck, newspaper still tucked under his arm. Behind him, he heard Davy say, "You guys got half an hour. Beyond that, no guarantees."

Mike, no less exhausted than he was five minutes prior, grudgingly accepted the fact that he wouldn't be sleeping just yet. With a yawn, he carefully descended the steps, with Peter and Davy close behind. Remembering the paper that he had under his arm, he lazily reached for it, unfolding it to the front page as he reached the ground.

"Anything interesting, Mike?" Davy asked.

"Nah, same old stuff." Most of the major headlines tended to be about the war, or politicians, or sometimes even sports. Micky's injury got a brief mention in one such article.

As he paged through the paper, he leaned against an old, half-dead maple and eased himself to the grass. Peter sat down next to him, while Davy stood with his arms crossed, looking up at the bay window.

"You're the one who wanted us to leave, Davy," Mike reminded him, with a half-smirk. He flipped to the next page.

"I know. I just hope things are goin' all right up there. You know, Mick and Jody haven't spoken in years."

"Years?"

"Some sort of fight," Davy said. "Never got all the details. He wanted her to keep up with her music, and she wanted him to get an education."

"Micky said she was a hippie," Peter supplied. He, too, had his attention on the bay window, as if staring at it would reveal the conversation behind the glass. "He said she was hard to reach, 'cuz she traveled a lot."

Davy laughed. "Jody? A hippie? Well, she's not exactly conservative, but I'd never see her gettin' wrapped up in free love, peace, waterbeds, brown rice…"

Mike interrupted, with a wave of his hand. "So what happened last night, Pete? Where'd you go?"

Peter proceeded to tell the story of the scribbled-out phone number written in crayon, and how he kind of figured the number had some significance. After Davy told him about the whole fight between Micky and his sister, Peter decided to call the number, and reached Jody herself. "We talked for a while," Peter said. "She was really nice. Quiet. She said her parents told her about Micky's accident when it happened, but she didn't feel right coming to see him. And… And I told her that there might never be a better time. But she said she couldn't. I didn't have much time to talk, 'cuz that was the day of the first round, you know?"

Mike nodded.

"So after you yelled at the whole audience on stage, I called her again. I went to a pay phone. Had just enough change with me to call her. I told her… I said Micky wouldn't play anymore. And she said she'd be in on the next train. And then I figured someone oughtta be there to pick her up, so I went to the train station."

"Yeah, well, how'd you get there?" Mike asked. "The station ain't exactly in our back yard."

Peter looked uncomfortable, squirming, wringing his hands, and looking away. "Well, I was at a gas station. So I just asked some nice man if he'd give me a ride."

Mike rubbed his face with both hands, momentarily ignoring the newspaper. He didn't need to tell Peter that hitchhiking was dangerous, but even so, he felt like he had to say something. "You coulda been killed, Peter."

"I know," the boy said miserably.

"Still, it was a nice thing you did," Davy affirmed. "Don't know what's gonna come out of it, but she might be able to talk some sense into him."

Resuming his perusal of the paper, Mike asked, "How'd you get back home?"

"We took a cab. Jody wouldn't let me ask any strangers for a ride— Don't look at me like that!" Peter pouted when Mike rolled his eyes and shook his head. "It worked fine the first time. I coulda got us back here."

"Smart girl, Jody," Davy chuckled.

Mike's eyes glanced over the headline in the Entertainment section as he smirked and read aloud, "'Competition Heats Up in Santa Monica.' Looks like two of the bands were disqualified for 'underhanded tactics,'" Mike continued, reading on. "Trying to bribe the judges 'r somethin', I bet. Doesn't say exactly. They elevated the next to highest-scoring groups to the top ten."

"They coulda just left 'em out," Davy said. "Would have increased our chances."

"Who made it?" Peter asked, obviously glad the attention was off him and his transportation tactics.

"There's a list here," Mike replied, setting the paper down on the grass. Davy and Peter shifted their position so they could more easily read.

Aside from the Monkees, there were nine other groups, including, of course, the Gargoyles. The Gargoyles probably held the most favor among the fans, for good reason - with talent like theirs, they deserved their own record deal. Of course, also contending was Flower Child, whose female lead seemed to endear herself to the young women in the audience, and the Terriers, who had a sort of Mamas and Papas lean to their music. Mike could recall that the B Shortcuts and Never Meant To played mostly metal, while Indigough - another mixed-gender group - tended toward the rather novel idea of country rock. Cedric and the Rabid Rabbits weren't the best band ever, but they certainly knew how to work an audience, and made it through to the finals on their charisma alone. The two bands that replaced the ones that were disqualified were the Tuxedo Kitties and Confused Ravioli, both of which Mike never heard of before the competition.

After taking a moment to read, Davy said, "Guys, I really think we can do this."

Michael really wanted to believe that, but with Micky's participation still up in the air, they only had three members. Still optimistic, Davy said, "We can have Peter sing one of the pieces he's been workin' on. "Can You Dig It" maybe."

With a set list of four for the final night, the boys again found themselves presented with the rule that at least two members of the band had to perform on lead. Davy still couldn't sing and play the drums at the same time without making some serious errors either with his voice or with the percussion. While he could perform "I Wanna Be Free" without drums, it wasn't as much of a crowd-pleaser as some of their other pieces, which meant Mike and Peter would have to take over lead singing duties.

Michael rubbed his chin, sighing. If they wanted to win, their best shot was to get Micky singing again. Micky and Davy. Ideally, Micky would sing, then Davy, then Micky again, and then Michael could close with one of his songs. Honestly, Mike liked his voice, but he didn't think the crowd would want to hear him sing three of their four allotted songs.

Peter lay back on the grass, folding his hands behind his head. "You know, sometimes I think I'm cursed. I've got perfect pitch, but I can barely carry a tune - and that's on a good day."

"You did 'Grizelda' all right," Mike returned.

"That was 'Grizelda,' though. You get me up on a stage with a new song, and I'll be all over the place, Michael. I… I know what I'm good at. I'm not a singer. That's not why I'm here."

Michael flipped the page over to the editorials. "We got no choice, buddy. Not unless we can get Micky on stage again." He paused, eyes skimming over the letters to the editor.

One stood out.

It would have to be _today._

"And once we read this to Micky," Mike added, "our chances of that happening are pretty slim."

—-

"You remember how to play?" Micky asked. He managed to make his way to the closet. Finding the guitar was an entirely different problematic endeavor.

He could _feel_ Jody lurking nearby, though he never could find the right words to explain how his senses managed such a trick. Turning, he looked under his arm, although _looked_ wasn't exactly the right word, inasmuch as he was just facing her with unseeing eyes.

"Do you need help?" she asked.

"Nah, just give me a sec." Smiling, he went back to searching for the guitar. Of course, Micky realized, he would only find it in the closet if it was _in the closet._

"You're pretty good at this, huh?" Jody asked.

It had to be somewhere, though. Somewhere close… No one could hide a guitar so easily. If he moved a couple more things— There! "Well, it's not impossible," Micky said, carefully extricating the neck of the acoustic instrument from coats and scarves and whatever else had it all tangled up. "You have three guys as roommates, though, and sometimes it's a little difficult makin' sure they put things back where they're supposed to be, so I can find 'em." Triumphantly, he held up the guitar, beaming.

Jody didn't respond. Micky ventured, "Jody?"

Nothing.

"…Jo-Jo?"

"Micky, why didn't you call me?"

He frowned, shoulders slumping. Setting the body of the guitar on the floor, he held onto the neck with both hands. He wished he could see his sister's face, because she sounded either sad, or just on the verge of anger. Little nuances like that were still beyond him, but Micky figured they'd come with time. Because he had no way of telling, he had to ask, "Are you mad?"

"Mad? No. I just… We always made up before…"

He allowed a smirk, picking up the guitar again and carrying it to the bandstand, where the other acoustic guitar rested.

"How do you do that?" Jody asked. "Get around like that?"

"I Dunno. Everything just kinda opened up in my mind. I feel things different. The place where I was standing is ten steps away from where I wanna be. And if I lose count on the way, there's a couple bumps in the floor I can use, like a map. Anyway, Jo-Jo, we never had a fight like _that_ before."

She was silent. Micky said, "If you wanna respond, you gotta speak up. I can't see you shrugging."

"I was nodding," she replied.

"I mean, sure, we argued over who got to keep the snake we found by Mister Keller's pond, and who got to sing at our cousin's wedding. And, you know, a dozen other little things that one of us could just apologize for later…" Micky trailed off as he found the second guitar. Plucking the strings one at a time, he started to tune the one he just found in the closet.

"Why not just use that one?" Jody asked. "The one on the stand over there…?"

Micky laughed. "That's Blondie. Only one who touches Blondie is Michael. Besides, if we used that one, we'd already be singing, and we wouldn't be having this chat." As he worked on tightening the lower E-string, he realized that the A was missing. "Jo, there's a box on the ledge over there, could you…?"

He heard her soft footsteps travel away, then back toward him. Close. Closer. She sat down next to him on the step, taking the second guitar off his lap. After a brief silence, Micky heard the discordant _twing_ of one of the guitar keys being turned, probably to loosen what remained of the old string. "I think," she said, "The problem was that we kind of insulted each others' choices before going our separate ways."

He barely picked up the mere whisper of the old string hitting the floor before he heard Jody tear open the paper package containing the new string. Micky felt the residual nagging memory from the old argument cropping up again. They managed to say some pretty hateful things to each other on that day. Things Micky regretted almost immediately. "Too bad this isn't some sort of movie or something, eh?" he said. "We could go back in time and work out exactly where things went south. Like a flashback or somethin'."

"You could have called," she said, her tone mildly accusing.

"Yeah, well, you could have called me, too."

Neither of them spoke. For a while, the only sound was the plink of the twisting tuners, and, every once in a while, the errant pluck of an un-tuned string. Eventually, Jody said, "Okay, play an A for me."

Micky did. When Jody echoed it, the resulting sound was the wrong note, and fairly sharp besides. Some time later, she said, "Again."

This time, the echo was a lot closer.

"You had a gift, Jody," Micky finally said. He paused, then added, "…but it wasn't where you wanted to be, was it?"

"No," she said. "Just like you woulda been miserable sitting in a classroom all day. One more time."

This time, the notes matched.

Micky played the next string, and Jody went about matching it on the other guitar. "So the question is," she said, "Why did we go so long without talking? How come it took someone who wasn't even there to try and set things right?

"Peter," Micky said, chuckling. "He doesn't like people fighting."

"He said you tried calling me — in some sorta roundabout way. I figure, even if you _had my number,_ you were just hoping to accidentally stumble onto somewhere I was. 'Oops! Wrong number! But while we're on the line, how about if we make up!' Didn't make much sense, Micky. The weird thing is, when he told me, I kinda understood perfectly." She stopped talking long enough for Micky to play 'D' again. And again. And again. She couldn't quite get them to match up.

"It's hard to say 'I'm sorry,'" Micky said.

"Why now, though?" Jody asked. She finally got the strings to match, so they moved onto tuning 'G.'

"These guys are like my family," Micky said. "I mean, they know everything about me. Kinda. Well, they know what I remember to tell 'em, anyway. I mean, I talk a lot, so sometimes I think maybe I've said something, when I really haven't? Or then maybe I repeat myself a little bit and end up sayin' the same thing over and over? — Uh. Thing is, I know they're gonna eventually pull me out of this somehow. That's what they do. But they don't know everything I've been through. You were always there to tell me it was gonna be okay — for all the major things, I mean. Grandpa's funeral, Mom and Dad losin' the house…"

"You don't need me to tell you that," Jody said.

"Yeah, but when you said it, I believed it," Micky replied. "Or maybe it was just an excuse for me to try an' contact you again." He smiled, looking up in the direction from which he last heard her voice. She sounded the same, so he could picture her in bright, vivid color, giving him a tolerant smirk as she tried to pretend that he wasn't the best big brother she could have ever asked for.

"Well, in that case, everything's gonna be okay."

As fate would have it, that was exactly when thundering footsteps ascended the rear stairway, and several people came tromping into the pad through the bay window door. "I told 'im to give you guys half an hour!" Davy yelled.

Micky jumped when he heard the sound of something heavy - like a stack of papers, or books, or something similar - slam onto the floor in front of him. He could sense someone standing near him, and looked up just as Mike said, "We got problems."


	17. Problems

"Problems?" Jody asked, as Mike sat down in one of the nearby mis-matched chairs. Peter stood nearby, his arms crossed, looking at the floor.

Realizing that no one intended to provide an answer, Davy sighed, sitting down in front of the bandstand, and picked up the newspaper that Mike slammed onto the floor. He paged through it until he found the proper article. "Problems. There's another Letter to the Editor in here all about how the Monkees are just horrible people all around."

He stared at the letter, nestled amongst the other, more innocuous things, such as corrections by the newspaper and various praises for journalistic excellence. The latest vitriol seemed so out of place, and the wording was so very, very desperate. Something about it bothered Davy, but he couldn't put his finger on exactly what that was. Sure, the entire thing screamed nothing but hatred, but beyond that, somewhere deep, nestled within the horrible words, something just looked _wrong._

"You might as well read it," Micky said.

"You sure?" Davy asked. When Micky nodded, he shrugged, and began to read.

"_What happened Wednesday?_

"_You started out so well. I heard the call for the Monkees to remove themselves from the stage starting in the voices of the crowd - I was among them, waiting to shout and scream until they left in a well-deserved state of shame. It could have been a wonderful victory for all of us, but instead, a horrible thing occurred. Something so terrible, that I have trouble speaking of it._

"_You let them play._

"_Can't you remember what they did? In case it's slipped your mind, let me refresh your memory. They plucked a sightless singer onto the stage, and pushed him to sing to an audience that he could not see. Imagine, readers, if you found yourself blind and in the dark, badgered into using your talent in order to garner sympathy from a very discerning panel of judges. Was Micky Dolenz promised money? Fame? I say again, he should have been protected, not displayed for the world to see!_

"_My initial ire burnt itself out long ago. I would have been perfectly content had the Monkees been disqualified, or even removed themselves from the competition entirely. Imagine the bile that rose in my throat when I saw that they had the audacity to return, minus the singer they'd previously exploited, with yet another tactic to beg for your favor!_

"_After a set which they should never have been allowed to perform, their guitar player, Michael Nesmith, spilled his guilt onto the audience in a mad tirade that blamed we, the people, for Dolenz's absense. I felt that surely, after such an impassioned bout of malarkey, the audience would demand his removal from the stage, but as his bandmates dragged him away, you cheered! You encouraged him! And I have no doubt in my mind that they will return for the final round, all because of you._

"_Please, though, you must understand._

"_The Monkees cannot redeem themselves. And I will tell you why._

"_After exploiting their singer, whose beautiful voice moved even me to tears, they, instead of admitting their shame and withdrawing from the contest, decided to remove the very person that they considered a problem. I honestly thought that the Monkees couldn't stoop any lower than they had, but the proof is in front of us all, staring us in the face and mocking us. If only they /had_ been jeered off the stage! But they played on, and what's worse, they've made it past the second qualifying round!/"

Micky looked uncomfortable, hugging the guitar close to him. As Davy glanced at him, he said, very quietly, "You guys didn't kick me out. I just didn't want to go."

Davy continued reading. "_But it's Dolenz I feel truly sorry for. The poor boy must be so confused. Surely he must be wondering what he did wrong to deserve the boot. Of course, we all know that it wasn't him at all, but the band who took him in, promising him a future, when the world knows full well that they would have just continued to take advantage of him had I not stepped in and said something._"

"How could she even think we threw him out, after what Mike said?" Peter muttered. "The whole audience heard it."

Mike waved a hand. "That's not even the worst part," he said. "We're damned if we do, damned if we don't. Davy, go on, read the rest."

"_'But surely,' you say, 'if the Monkees bring Dolenz back, they must be trying to do the right thing!' To this, I say for certain that they are not. If Dolenz reappears on the stage, I can say with absolute certainty that the Monkees are only doing what they believe must be done to keep themselves in the favor of the judges. They have no care at all for the people they use, or the people they've tread on to get to this particular point in the competition. They care not for the legitimate bands that may have more talent than they do. This controversy has enabled them to reach a point where they are in a position to take the rightful prize away from someone much more deserving._

"_To the members of the Monkees: If you attempt in any way to return to the good graces of the audience, you will fail. We are all aware of what you are up to. We are not stupid._

"_Since the KRIX will not disqualify you, there is only one thing left for you to do: Withdraw. Resign. Step off the public stage and back into your own world, and maybe, just maybe, you might start to regain the infinite amount of respect you're already lost._"

Davy closed the paper, sighed, and stated, "It's signed 'Anonymous' again."

The others were silent. As Davy looked at each of them in turn, he could read the reactions on their faces almost as easily as he could pages in a book. Jody looked completely floored, but she would, considering that she never saw the first letter. Micky seemed somewhat disturbed, but otherwise resigned, while Mike still looked as angry as he did when he first noticed the letter. Peter fidgeted for a moment, worry clearly present in his eyes, before he said, "Guys, I think our only option is to resign."

Before Peter stopped speaking, though, Mike barked out an emphatic "_NO!_" and launched himself from his chair so powerfully that the thing tipped over backward. When it hit the floor, Micky jumped, dropping the guitar, which struck a step with a most horribly discordant agreement to Michael's exclamation.

"If we withdraw, we're sayin'— We're sayin' everything's… Well, that everything that guy wrote is all true. And I dunno 'bout you fellas, but if there's any respect to be earned, I say we need to go down fightin', not slinkin' off with our tails between our legs. I just… I can't abide that. I'd never be able to take a gig again if I just gave up. 'Specially 'cuz we all know what went down, and we all know that we'd never use each other just to win some silly competition."

"It's not silly," Davy griped. He picked up the guitar, checking to make sure it hadn't cracked or anything, before handing it back to Micky. "It's worth ten-thousand bucks if we win."

Mike paced. As he did so, Micky plucked the B string on his guitar, and Jody quickly began to tune the other one. Davy couldn't help noticing the faraway look in his friend's eyes as he fought to do _something_ to occupy his mind. His expression looked hollow and patiently controlled, as if he might cry at any moment.

"Okay," Mike said. "Not silly. But in the scheme of things… Guys, if we resign now, I ain't gonna be able to take myself seriously anymore. I'm not gonna be able to call myself Michael Nesmith and mean it. All I'll be is a fraud, someone who let 'imself get all scared off by some scrawny little busybody he saw at an old, run-down diner."

"He didn't seem the type, Mike," Micky said, plucking the last string. Jody did likewise.

"Maybe not. Maybe it wasn't him. Whoever it was, though, has it in for us, and I ain't gonna stand by and let us be stepped all over. That ain't us. We've been through so much, that we should be able to weather this little thing. We get up on stage, we make a showin', and we go down fighting. All of us."

Davy stood, tucking the newspaper under his arm. Meeting Peter eyes, he asked the silent question that they both must have been pondering: _Do we go through with it?_ Was it worth it to face the potential ridicule, to possibly look into the eyes of the mysterious letter-writer? As he thought about it, Davy found himself feeling angrier and angrier at the whole situation.

Then Peter smiled, inclining his head just a little in assent.

"You know," Davy said. "Mike's right, as usual. Who cares what's in the paper, eh?

Jody played a chord on the old, run-down acoustic guitar. Finally tuned, the beat-up instrument sounded just as good as any other.

Micky began plucking out the intro to something.

Davy talked over the music. "He's right. Why're we being singled out? We know who we are. We're the Monkees, and we have just as much right to finish this contest as anyone else does. Nothin's stopping us."

Jody seemed to recognize Micky's tune, and joined in, quietly playing a counter-melody.

"So," Davy went on, somewhat distracted by the fact that Micky was neither listening, nor smiling, or even really acknowledging that he was speaking, at all. "So, all four of us, up on stage…"

"No," Micky said.

Thrown, the only thing Davy could think of to say was, "No?"

Micky shook his head. "Guys, I'm the problem. That's the entire thing, right there. I'm the _cause_ of all this. It doesn't matter if it's intentional or not. If I'm on stage, we're gonna get booed right off. Without me, you at least have a _chance._"

"Maybe no one'll read the paper," Peter suggested, as Micky continued to play.

"Yeah, maybe we're overestimating how many people are even gonna _see_ this letter." Mike reached for the newspaper, waving it aloft, before tossing it unceremoniously to the side.

"You said they tried to boo you off the stage," Micky said, adding a chuckle that contained no humor. "Whoever's writin' that stuff, they're reaching an audience.

"You should at least go. Sit in the audience," Jody said. "I'll go with you."

Micky said nothing for quite some time, continuing to pluck at the guitar strings. Eventually, the curly-haired drummer said, "I'll think about it."

The vague aimlessness of the introductory measures finally coalesced into a recognizable tune. Micky glanced up at Jody and nodded, and began to sing, "_When your dreams have died around you, she'll be there…_"

—-

"You don't mind sleeping on the couch?" Jody asked.

As Davy tore the sheets off his bed, he offered a lop-sided smile and shook his head. "Nah. I mean, it's uncomfortable, and exposed to the elements and all. And by elements, I mean Micky, Peter, and Mike runnin' through the house at all hours. But no, I don't mind at all."

"Convincing," Jody said, chuckling.

"I thought so." As Davy unfolded a clean set of sheets, he asked, "So what _have_ you been up to? I haven't seen you in a long time."

Jody took one end of the fitted sheet and tucked it under the mattress. "School. You know, I'm hoping to teach science eventually. Of course, college is kind of a boys' club. You gotta have really good grades just to keep up."

"Lemme guess. You're at a four-point-oh."

Jody sighed, shaking her head. "You know, sometimes I wish I would have stuck with music."

Davy allowed a moment for the harsh reality of Jody's situation to pass. "Well, don't let Micky hear you say that. He'll just say 'I told you so.'"

Jody remained silent, working on making the bed, instead.

"You do have a lot of talent, though," Davy went on, dragging the top of the sheet up to the headboard and tucking it under the mattress. "I mean, you were right on key the whole time you were singin' with Micky. When's the last time you sang that song?"

"I know I have talent," she said. "That's not the point, Davy. You know that. Look, I weighed my options. I'm not the type of female musician the world wants. And I have a much better chance of making a career out of teaching."

"The world be damned," Davy muttered.

Jody chuckled. "I think I argued about this enough with my brother."

Rolling his eyes, Davy smiled. "Yeah, sorry. I don't mean to side with him."

"You're best friends. Of course you would," Jody said. Once the sheet was in place, she sat at the foot of the bed. "And you gotta admit, Micky's got more of a passion than I ever did. You can hear it in his voice and all. The way he plays. He gave me chills out there. Every word he sings, he means it."

Davy sat down next to Jody, hugging a pillow to his chest. "He used to know that. Before he got hurt, I think 'e really believed it, too. Lately, I dunno. Anyway, maybe he needs to hear all that from you, Jody."

"How do you know he doesn't need to hear it from _you?_"

Davy considered, then leaned back on his hands, looking at the old posters and things hanging on all the walls. His eyes also fell upon the meticulously-crafted room setup, with everything situated into its own special place, so that Micky could find whatever he needed, without tripping on anything to get to it. Lately, he'd thrown his entire existence into making the pad safe for him to get around in independently, so Davy knew the passion was still there. "It's all mis-applied," Davy said. "He doesn't get it. And you can't really fault him for that, either. He lost his eyes and his ego took a hit, and he hasn't recovered."

"From what Peter said, he was doing all right, for a while," Jody said. "Then the letter showed up in the paper. The first one, I mean.

"Yeah. He didn't want anyone to know. I think that's what bothers him most of all. That people figured out he's blind."

Jody shook her head. "Vain little brat."

"He can be," Davy agreed. "Look, get him there, Jody. I got an idea, and Micky isn't gonna like it. I gotta talk to Mike and Peter about it, but I'm sure they'll be on board. Wear him down, okay? No matter what, just get him to agree to go."

"Pretty sure I can manage that," she said.

—-

With Mike, Davy, and Peter out in the garage figuring out their set list for the final push in the Santa Monica music competition, Jody sat at the kitchen table, watching with amazement as Micky found his way around the kitchen.

His blindness barely mattered. He found exactly what he searched for with a minimum of feeling around for it. Even things in the fridge, which seemed - to Jody, anyway - to have relatively random placement, Micky found with ease. Of course, the wasn't a lot in the fridge to start with, which was a little disturbing.

There were a few moments when Micky seemed lost for a little while, but he declined all offers of help. Even in those times, he eventually located what he needed with an amazing air of confidence about him. To Jody, he seemed exactly the same as she always knew him, albeit just a little slower on his feet. Even so, Micky hadn't let blindness slow him down, and soon, she found him proudly setting a sandwich down on the table in front of her, made exactly how he knew she liked it.

She applauded. Jody knew he was waiting for it. Micky, with a broad grin, took a bow.

Unfortunately, when he went to pull his own chair out, it wasn't where he expected it to be. Already committed to leaning forward, nothing stopped his forward fall, and his hands swept right past the table without contacting it. Jody found herself holding back a laugh at the completely confused, surprised expression he wore as he disappeared from her view.

Unable to say anything, lest she risk an escaping chuckle, she remained silent, hands over her mouth, until Micky said, "I meant to do that."

She slid off her chair and to the floor. Despite knowing full well how hard a time Micky was having with his injury, she still had to bite her lip to keep from laughing. It made Jody feel insensitive; even so, such a tumble lay well within Micky's penchant for physical comedy. Maybe she was just conditioned to find it funny.

When she knelt next to him to help him up, he immediately reached for her face, and with a surprisingly gentle touch, traced the smile-lines around her mouth and cheeks. "I was beginning to wonder if you lost your sense of humor," Micky said with a smile.

"It's not supposed to be funny. C'mon." Jody tried to pull him off the floor, but he dead-weighted in her arms, rolling his eyes up at her like a wounded puppy. Eventually, she said, "Fine, stay there."

Her own mind alternated between the option of staying on the floor, or returning to her chair so she could eat. To that end, she moved each way a couple times, almost standing for one second, then almost sitting the next. Eventually, resigned, she flopped down on the floor next to Micky, pulling one knee up to her chest. "You're still a brat."

"Yeah, I know."

"Look, while we're sitting on the floor…" Jody began, "How 'bout if you tell me why you won't play anymore?"

Micky offered a tense smile and started to stand, but Jody grabbed onto his hair. "Micky."

"Aah, hey!" he complained, trying to untangle himself from her grasp. Unfortunately, she didn't seem inclined to let him escape. "What? What do you want to hear? There's no _one reason._ There's lots. I'll work it out."

"Those guys need you."

"Jo, it's not just as easy as saying, 'Okay! I'm done being a coward! Time to get back up on stage!' It doesn't work like that." He reached for her hand with both of his, so she let go, only to grab his hair with her other hand. He sighed, settling down and scowling at her.

"Don't give me that look."

He managed to squint his eyes even narrower, pushing out his jaw in indignation.

"C'mon, Mick."

"Fine. Just lemme go, huh?" He waved a hand at her, and rested his elbows on his knees. "I did it once - got up on stage, I mean. I think I was kinda kidding myself with thinkin' I could do it. I was scared, you know? Standing in the middle of nothing, knowing if you move the wrong way, you could trip, or knock over a microphone… And they'd see me. Hundreds of people would see that happen. And I wouldn't be able to see their faces when it did. I'd be staring out at them, and they'd be lookin' back at me, doing what? Laughing? That's what you did. I guess that's okay. It's… it's the other stuff that bugs me. This collective judgement. They'd all think it. Hey, he's blind. Look at how _brave_ he is! I'm not Brave, Jo-Jo. I just… I just want people to see _me._"

"Micky. Peter an' Davy an' Mike, they're counting on you."

"…Yeah, I know." He looked away, pouting.

Jody could tell that he wasn't exactly happy about his decision, but in a way, she knew what he felt, and could relate. In a school where most of her classmates were male, Jody stood out as a curiosity, especially when she attended classes for such an academic subject. Sure, she had a couple female classmates, but the vast majority of the women at her particular school were attending classes for general teaching degrees. She wanted to spend her days in a lab, up to her ears in glorious science.

Leaning on her brother, she draped an arm around his shoulder. "Well, you're going to go," she said. "You can sit next to me and watch. I'm not letting you stay home and sulk while they go play to pay off your hospital bills."

He sighed, glancing at her out the corner of his eye. It hurt to see him staring like that, with almost all the personality drained from his formerly expressive gaze. It seemed dead. Dull. But Jody wondered if it had less to do with the actual blindness, and more to do with the fact that he forced himself to stop doing what he loved.

"All right," he muttered. "I'll go."


	18. Finals

The days that followed were strange, especially considering that Micky never actually heard the guys rehearsing. They must have been, though, because when Micky asked Mike how things were coming together, Mike always replied that things were just fine, that there was nothing to be worried about. Additionally, every once in a while, Davy would ask for drum lessons for very specific songs, and Micky obliged out of a combination of boredom and self-indulgence. More and more, he realized just how much he missed playing, and relished those moments at the drum kit with his friend.

It wasn't long before the night of the big show arrived, though. Despite feeling uneasy about his bandmates' level of readiness, Micky made a promise to attend, and he didn't intend to break it. Sitting in the front row with Jody, he hunkered down in his chair, completely oblivious to the current theatrics on stage that had people in uproarious laughter. Cedric and the Rabid Rabbits certainly knew how to make people _laugh,_ but their music left something to be desired. "They were off-key," Micky muttered, leaning over to whisper in Jody's ear as she giggled. "Off-key, and I'm pretty sure their bass player hasn't ever picked up a bass in his life."

"They're dressed as rabbits, though," Jody replied. The laughter crescendoed again, as a horribly flat sting from the guitar echoed through the auditorium.

"Is this a _music_ competition or a comedy routine?" Micky asked, crossing his arms.

Jody finally stopped laughing, and Micky felt her shoulder bump against his. At least, he thought it was his sister, judging by the familiar scent of her perfume. Every once in a while, he experienced a weird disconnection, where the fact that he couldn't confirm his environment with his eyes would catch up with him. "You're one to talk," she said. "You make a joke out of everything."

"Yeah. Well."

"I know," Jody returned. She wrapped her arm around him for a moment, drawing him close for a quick hug, then she went back to chuckling.

Honestly, Micky wished he could see it all and laugh at it, too. But they weren't really cracking jokes, which meant he had nothing to which he could respond. Everything that made the audience laugh was entirely visual, and apparently, it was hilarious. At least the prior groups had more to offer when it came to their actual music. Micky found himself completely engrossed in the peppy rock and roll pieces played by Flower Child, and rather enjoyed the music by the Tuxedo Kitties, who were an all-girl group.

Perhaps because the Flanahan Auditorium and KRIX thought that the Monkees would withdraw from the competition, they ended up scheduled last, which could either work in their favor or kill any chance they had of winning. Micky spent the entire show worrying that half the audience would walk out before the Monkees even got a chance to play. Of course, if the audience felt at all morbidly curious, they might all just stay in their seats to see if the Monkees collapsed in on themselves like a dying star.

They wouldn't, of course. Micky had nothing but faith in his friends. Being here, in such close proximity to whoever wrote about them in the paper, though, made him uncomfortable. That anonymous letter-writer must be out there somewhere, perhaps close enough so that Micky would be able to touch him if he reached out an arm. What would have possessed that person to write such horrible things without knowing the whole story?

And after the competition concluded, would they write _more?_

Micky still couldn't believe that Felix wrote those letters. He couldn't wrap his mind around it, in fact, since the guy seemed so sincere and innocent the whole time they were talking. There were hundreds of other people who might have done it, besides - a thought which made Micky particularly uneasy. What did the Monkees do to deserve such ire?

It made him so upset that he leaned over and whispered to Jody, "Maybe I should be backstage with the guys."

The thought gave him a certain sense of excitement, despite his reluctance. He wanted so badly to play again, but he didn't want people laughing at him for the wrong reasons, or pitying him, or believing the absurd theory that Mike, Davy, and Peter were somehow using him for their own gain.

"I'll walk you back there," Jody said.

With the hopeful note in his sister's voice, Micky actually contemplated taking her up on the offer. At the same time, his brain kicked into overdrive, searching for a valid excuse, until he came up with, "Nah, I'm not dressed for it." Really, it wasn't the clothing that had him concerned. If not for Mike's rather strict 'dress code' rule, Micky could see himself climbing up on stage in his birthday suit, if he knew it would get a laugh. And not get him arrested.

"You sure? There's still time."

Again, Micky seriously considered it. He _wanted to play so badly._ In the end, though, all he could do was shake his head, as his ears picked up his sister's quiet sigh.

As Cedric and the Rabid Rabbits left the stage, the audience stood up to applaud their final performance. Despite their popularity, Micky found himself hoping that they wouldn't win, because he honestly felt that their music sounded sub-par. He wondered if he'd feel the same if he could see them, though. Were they really that creative? Was their stage presence really worth ten thousand dollars?

"What're you thinking?" Jody asked as she sat back down. "And, point of fact, a standing ovation means you're supposed to stand."

"I dun wanna," Micky griped, slipping further down in the chair. "C'mon, Jo-Jo. Musically, you know they weren't that good."

When she didn't say anything, Micky glanced in her direction. Eventually, he reached for her face, gently feeling her knitted eyebrows and scowl. His fingers lingered around her eyes, and he could even feel her roll them, at which point, he smiled sheepishly and pulled away. "It's hard for me to just have fun, you know," he said. "I can't help it."

Before Jody got the chance to respond, the Gargoyles were announced onto the stage. Of all the bands, they probably had the best chance of winning. Micky, at least, enjoyed their music, although sometimes he found himself knee-deep in jealousy when he thought about how many gigs they managed to nail down. Still, without anything else to do but sit there and listen, Micky tapped his foot to their pure rock sound, applauding between each song in their set. Unlike the previous elimination rounds, the bands weren't timed, which meant that several groups played one or two of their longer pieces. As the Gargoyles belted out a beautiful ballad, Micky did the math in his head, trying to remember how many sets he'd already heard.

The Monkees were next.

He sat up in his chair, eyes searching, even though he couldn't see a thing. Perhaps it was all just part of the moment. Instinct. Nervousness. Also with a bit of guilt thrown in on the side, because he should have been backstage with them, but he couldn't make himself do it.

The audience went wild after the Gargoyles played their final piece. At that moment, Micky strained his ears against the applause, trying to make out the sounds of the Monkees setting up on the stage. With enough concentration, he could almost discern…

Suddenly, he felt a hand on his, which definitely didn't feel like Jody's. This one was rougher. Larger. The touch seemed almost familiar.

"Mick, it's Davy."

"Davy?"

"Yeah. You hear how the Gargoyles played?"

Micky nodded.

"Good. If we want to beat them, we're gonna have to pull out all the stops, mate. We need you on the drums."

Micky felt both horrified and excited by the prospect at the same time. He couldn't say no, but one worry still remained. "I didn't rehearse."

"Star Collector. Clarksville. You Just May Be the One. I'm a Believer. You can handle those, right?"

With a certain amount of pride in Davy's sneakiness, Micky realized that the four songs Davy just named were the exact four they'd been practicing throughout the week. In short, Davy had him rehearsing _quite a bit,_ without Micky even realizing it.

"Sometimes, I think you're a genius."

Davy chuckled. "Well? How 'bout it, then?"

He felt Davy take his other hand, and, reluctantly, Micky allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. As the crowd continued to applaud the Gargoyles, Davy gently guided him toward the stage. At one point, he felt someone one to his left - perhaps a stage hand or a security guard? Davy muttered a quick 'excuse me' to the man, before helping Micky up a series of steps. "Watch this partition," Davy said. "Just step around… There you go. Over here, then…"

Immediately, he felt the heat of the lights, and realized that the audience could now see him; in that exact moment, the applause ceased, after which Davy carefully guided Micky around their gear and to the drum kit. Carefully, the drummer sat, reached for his mic, and pulled it closer.

No one in the audience made a sound. Micky felt the drumsticks pressed into his hand, and wondered what the hell he thought he was doing.

Davy asked, "You ready, Micky?"

"As I'll ever be."

_Why was the audience so quiet?_

He couldn't honestly believe he agreed to this. _Had_ he agreed? The last thing Micky remembered, he was contemplating Davy's genius, just before he found himself being led up onto the stage. No agreement occurred!

Even having no time left to run, Micky still felt a disconcerting urge to abandon the stage. He couldn't make himself do it, though, and realized that his desire to stay put and give live performance a try again wasn't just about an obligation to his friends. Sure, that was part of it - he definitely owed the other guys so much more than he could ever give them. Really, though, it was the strong instinct to make this all work, to prove he could actually play in front of an audience, that made him stay. Even then, his nerves seemed to be chewing away at his sanity, and he barely registered Mike's voice counting them in to "Star Collector."

From the beginning, Micky's drumming failed him. It was a complicated part for starters, and, with it being one of their newer songs, Micky preferred to have visual contact with the drums in order to play it. As he realized that he couldn't adequately sense the set-up, he continued to maim the song until he heard the bass drop out, quickly followed by the guitar.

He expected the audience to boo them off the stage, but they were silent, except for a quiet cough or sniffle here and there. Micky ducked his head, closing his eyes, as his own mind waged a war against itself inside his head. He could leave the stage and allow the others to take over and finish the set if he really wanted to, which would be the easy solution to this whole mess. Or, he could do what was expected of him - his job - and set things up so he could play.

"I just need a minute," he said into the mic, as he reached for the individual pieces of the kit. He pulled a couple closer, and pushed a couple away. The arrangement was unfamiliar, but he could make it work. "I've been playing since I was little," he explained, as his fingers worked over the circumference of the snare drum. He made a mental note of where it was, and where the best place to strike it would be, before moving on to the cymbals. "Then I got beaned over the head with a baseball, and I had to learn how to play all over again." He pulled the crash cymbal closer, then worked his fingertips around the edge of it. This done, he started over from the beginning, feeling each piece in turn, to ensure the entire kit was set up in exactly the way he wanted it. His mind formed a mental picture of the entire thing, so clear that he could almost see it without the use of his eyes.

It was all so clear.

From the drum kit, he began to sense a better image of the whole theater, from where his bandmates were standing, to the location of the audience before them. He allowed his senses to open up, realizing that the crowd really wasn't silent at all. Every little tiny noise echoed around them, painting the exact structure of the theater in beautiful auditory detail. Perfect? No. But at least Micky no longer felt alone in the dark.

And that's when he realized that he'd been denying himself all of this for no reason. Smiling, he laughed, tapping one of the sticks on the edge of the floor tom.

"You wanna count us in, Mick?" Mike asked. His voice seemed so positive. So upbeat and hopeful. Uncharacteristic, but Micky liked it. He liked being back on the drums. And really, who gave a damn what some anonymous mook in the newspaper thought?

"I don't think we've been announced yet," Micky said. He waited a moment, then…

"Ladies and gentlemen, the Monkees."

No one booed or jeered. Instead, the audience applauded quite loudly and politely. As the sound started to fade, Micky counted them in to "Star Collector," finding himself right at home as Davy sang.

It sounded amazing. They were all on their game, and Micky was right where he was supposed to be. So eager was he to play "Last Train to Clarksville," that he nearly forgot to give the audience time to appreciate what they just heard. By now, though, his friends were very used to his spontaneity, so they were ready when he was.

Everything about their set felt right. He and Davy were both exactly where they needed to be, which allowed Michael and Peter to play with much less worry. It also meant that both of their lead singers could participate - with Davy out from behind the drums, he only had to concentrate on the tambourine, the maracas, and, of course, his golden voice, which was always a hit with the girls. Mike sounded so at-ease when he sang, too, performing his piece better than he ever had before. By the time Micky closed with "I'm a Believer," Davy leaned over to whisper that most of the crowd was on their feet.

He would have liked to get up and wander around the stage a bit. After restraining himself for so long, Micky just wanted to ham it up - to go all out with the piece that kind of felt like his trademark. Despite this, he had the good sense to remain seated - not only would the drum part _stop_ if he left the kit behind, but he'd inevitably trip on every single thing on the stage. Funny? Yes. Painful? _Also yes._

As the song finished, Micky could barely hear himself play over the roar of the crowd. Eventually, he gave up on the last few measures, losing his composure and dissolving into relieved laughter as he tossed the sticks at the drums. A moment later, Davy nearly knocked Micky over as he wrapped his arms around him in a hug.

"I knew you could do it!" the shorter boy screamed over the cheering.

"We were pretty S-O-L if Davy couldn't get you up here," Mike yelled. "We were all pretty sure you'd do it, though."

"You didn't have a back up plan!?" Micky demanded, incredulous.

"WHY WOULD WE?!" Peter shouted from across the stage.

Why would they? The simple question said volumes. They weren't the Monkees unless they were all together.

Mike and Davy helped Micky to the front of the stage. When Peter joined them, they took a bow.

Micky was pretty sure that their set was the very best they'd ever played, and judging by the cheering, the audience agreed.

—-

Backstage, Michael leaned on an old, retired speaker. He honestly didn't care about the layer of dust atop it, even though it almost certainly spent years accumulating there. With ten bands huddled backstage, all waiting for the results, any little bit of real estate the boys could find was well worth it, especially considering how exhausted the past month left them.

"Move over," Peter muttered. I'm gonna climb up there so I'm not crowding anyone.

Michael glanced sideward, meeting eyes with the lead singer of Confused Ravioli. He looked tired, too… And irritated. Any little bit of space they could give each other would certainly be appreciated. "Yeah, c'mon," Mike said, holding the speaker steady so that Peter could climb to the top. It seemed as if the blond didn't mind the dust, either; giving it a glance, he merely shrugged and sat down in it. This caused a cloud of grime to project outward in all directions, resulting in a rather violent sneeze by Davy.

"That's nice, that is," Davy muttered, coughing.

The space really looked quite large before, when several dozen people weren't crammed into it. With the low lighting and dusty corners, though, it seemed so compact and uncomfortable.

"How long is this gonna take?" One of the members of the Gargoyles questioned. "We got things to celebrate!"

The statement preceded a chorus of snickers from the group's other members.

"Sure, they'll probably win," Micky muttered, as he huddled with his knees drawn up to his chin at the base of the speaker. "No reason to rub it in."

"Well, to the victor go the spoils," Mike muttered derisively. As awesome as the Gargoyles were, they were awfully full of themselves.

"Hey, we were spot-on!" Davy said. "We played our hearts out. Don't 'to the victor' at me until the results come in."

For everything being done and over, his bandmates sure weren't in the most stellar of moods, Mike thought to himself with a chuckle. It would be nice to win, certainly, since Micky had a lot of bills to pay – in fact, the entire reason Mike put the Monkees through all this was solely to pay for Micky's hospital stay. The competition circuit was far too strenuous and much too demanding for such a casual group.

But he wouldn't say whether or not they did good enough to win until they got the results. He hoped, certainly… But Michael was also prepared for the more likely scenario that they just didn't measure up to get a prize. The other bands were far more competitive - he knew at least half of them threw their lives into the art of competition, and this one just happened to have the biggest prize. "Well, whatever happens, y'all should be damn proud of yourselves."

At least he earned a smile from the others for the compliment.

Finally, after what seemed like an hour of waiting, one of the stage hands stumbled through the waiting bandmembers and as close to the center of the room as he could get. Flipping through the wrinkled pages on his clipboard, he muttered something that sounded suspiciously like "All these groups with animal names…" And then "Which one was it?" and then, most suspiciously, "Oh, well."

"Now wait a second— " Mike began, holding up one finger. He wanted to know what the heck that even _meant._ Maybe the statement spelled good things for one of the groups with an 'animal name.' Then again, the stagehand looked harried enough that Michael couldn't believe for a second that he was talking about a first-place winner.

The man with the clipboard ignored him, though. "Okay, I need all the groups out onto the stage, huh? Go on."

"All of us?" Someone asked.

"Alla you," the stagehand replied. He continued flipping through the pages, nervously, as if searching for something. "Yeah, they took the partitions down. Uh, stand just along the back. Together, by group."

Mike glanced at Micky, who was looking back at him with a degree of concern not shared by the much more excited Davy and Peter. Already heading toward the stage doors, Davy looped his arms around Michael's and Micky's, pulling them onward, as Peter took Micky's shoulders and ensured that he didn't trip over anything on the way.

They were herded onward by the mass of people both in front of them and behind them. Once they were on the stage again, Mike squinted, momentarily shielding his eyes with his hands against the overhead floodlights until his vision adjusted. Eventually, they came to stop just off to the left of center stage.

"Did you hear what that guy was saying?" Micky leaned over, whispering. "Back stage, I mean."

Mike nodded. "Somethin' about— " He paused, looking into Micky's eyes. Something was different about them…

"Ladies and gentlemen!"

A man wearing a tailored suit strode in from stage right, waving his arm with a flourish. The microphone cord trailed along behind him like a rat's tail. The audience went crazy, and finally, Mike was able to put a face with the announcer's name. He was one of the radio personalities on KRIX.

Mike stared down into the crowd as they cheered, barely able to make out any faces through the glare of the lights. If he squinted, he could see the features of some of the people in the front row, though. After a while, he recognized Micky's sister, who was on her feet, waving. Off to the side, though, Mike also saw a handful of photographers with their expensive cameras. Nestled among them, he noticed Felix Macleod.

Inwardly, he bristled, but it was too late to do anything now.

As the applause died down, the announcer went on. "I'm Kevin Allister, your afternoon DJ for KRIX, California's number one home for rock-and-roll." He had to pause for a moment as the crowd applauded again. "You've all been waiting patiently for the judge's decision, but first, every participant in the top ten will get a free family dinner from one of our sponsors, Captain Crocodile's pizza, just up the road in Pasadena!"

As the crowd cheered again, Davy leaned over and whispered, "Captain Crocodile's got a new hobby, looks like."

Allister continued, holding up a card. "Your third place winner of one thousand dollars is…" He paused for dramatic effect, then read, "the Tuxedo Kitties!"

They stepped forward to take their envelope amid generous, albeit unenthusiastic applause. Understandably, they looked upset, despite the win. Unlike the rest of the gathered bands, who still had hope for the grand prize, the Tuxedo Kitties were out of the running with a small consolation. Mike couldn't be disappointed, though. He crossed his fingers, hoping that out of the two remaining rewards, the Monkees would win one of them. Even the second place prize would help.

"In second place, the winner of five thousand dollars… Indigough!"

A butterfly started fluttering around in Mike's stomach. Surely he and the other Monkees were good enough for a prize. Dare he hope that they'd done good enough to win first place? As the crowd applauded loudly for Indigough, Mike threaded his fingers into his hair with one hand, and shook Davy's shoulder with the other. "I think we did it, buddy," he whispered. Peter seemed to be doing his best not to jump up and down in place, and Micky was wearing his characteristic beaming grin - an expression Mike hadn't seen on his face for weeks.

He could feel it. They all could.

They won.

He could even see it in the eyes of the others. Flower Child's bassist flashed him a thumbs-up. The Gargoyles' lead singer had his eyes narrowed, while their drummer looked away. Cedric and the Rabid Rabbits were already giving themselves conciliatory pats on the back.

"And now," Allister continued. The crowd was already on their feet.

"The moment you've all been anticipating for the past month. Your king of the stage. The grand prize winners of ten _thousand_ dollars, sponsored by KRIX and the University of California - Los Angeles…"

Mike couldn't breathe. He was almost dizzy.

"_THE GARGOYLES!_"

The crowd screamed so loud that Micky had to put his hands over his ears. Peter jumped once, pumping his fist, before he realized that they _hadn't_ won, after all. Davy started to slump, but Mike caught him under the shoulder, hoisting him back to his feet.

The gargoyles were leaping around like lunatics as balloons fell from above, and confetti rained onto the audience. The little bits of paper fell in front of the lights, making them look almost as if they were twinkling. Mike saw Felix climbing onto the stage, just as Kevin Allister stepped directly in front of him, meeting his eyes.

"The guys downstairs were supposed to tell you before the awards were handed out," the DJ said quietly. "We can't even give you the pizza dinner. You were disqualified!"


	19. On His Blindness

Mike's fingers clenched into a fist.

Amid the cheering crowd and the excited contest winners, Felix continued climbing awkwardly onto the stage. When questioned by a security guard, he fished some sort of plastic pass out from under his suit coat and dangled it as best he could in such an awkward position. As he started to topple backward, the guard grabbed his wrist and tried to hoist him the rest of the way up, almost unbalancing both of them completely. Meanwhile, Michael felt more sure than he ever had in his entire life that he was about to punch someone as hard as he possibly could. On stage. In front of hundreds.

"I'm really sorry, guys," the DJ continued, looking almost perplexed as Michael stared past him. He turned to look over his shoulder, but by now, the burly security guard and the wiry Felix had completely disappeared from the stage. That was probably all for the best; Mike certainly didn't want to face assault and battery charges on top of losing so horrendously at something so very important.

As Alister hurried off to re-join the Gargoyles, Peter grabbed Mike's arm, giving his shoulder a pat, which effectively pulled him out of his thoughts. "C'mon. Let's go."

But Felix, who'd already proven his horrible determination in baffling ways, was proving yet again that he just wouldn't give up. As Mike stared at the edge of the stage, the man's wild hair reappeared, followed by a pair of confused brown eyes. Using his elbows as leverage, he started pulling himself up again, and Mike nodded in his direction, feeling his fingernails cutting into his palms.

It was all Peter could do to pull him, one inch at a time, toward the stage door and away from the awkward display. Mike couldn't get it out of his head, though, that Felix being _here_ at the precise time the DJ announced the winners was too convenient to be mere coincidence. Any doubt in his mind disappeared; his face burned, and his eyes stung. Through his teeth, he hissed, "He wrote those letters, guys."

"I know," Micky muttered, voice similarly tense. He reached out once, then again, his hand missing Mike's arm twice before it found a perch against one shoulder. "But don't ruin it for the rest of 'em, Mike. It'll be okay. Good on them for winning."

The other bands were slowly filing off the stage, leaving only the winners behind with the host. Someone said something mildly encouraging to Mike as they walked past, but he wasn't really paying attention. Actually, he began hoping that the stare he was leveling on Felix might cause one or two of the man's organs to spontaneously combust or something.

When Peter finally did manage to guide him to the stairs, Mike narrowed his eyes one final time, but no fires erupted from Felix's ears. Disheartened, he turned and stomped down to the backstage area.

Davy followed, helping Micky as much as he could with the press of people all around them. Honestly, though, for not being able to see, Micky was doing quite well on his own. On each step, he slid his toe forward until he felt open air, then took a step down. Once they made it to the landing, Davy quickly pulled Micky out of the way of the other fleeing bands, and they made their way back over to their safe haven by the old speaker.

"I can't believe it," Davy said. "We did good, guys. Best we ever played." He looked over at Micky then, smiling despite the shared dour mood. "At least some good came out of that whole mess. We got you playin' again, Mick. And you were amazing." He elbowed the drummer gently. "You missed playin' in front of a crowd, eh?"

Micky offered a half-hearted smirk of his own, and shrugged. "You don't think it was the false start that killed our chances, do ya?"

"Nah, couldn't a' been," Mike replied. "I read the rules cover to cover. Ain't nothin' in 'em about starting a song over."

"Well, we tried." Peter hopped up onto the speaker again, sending a couple wisps of dust flying. Despite the optimism, Mike could already see the tears working their way down Peter's cheeks, leaving several damp spots on his shirt where they'd fallen. "Look, Micky," Peter went on, swiping a hand across his face. "We'll figure somethin' out. There's gotta be some way…"

The smirk on Micky's face faded, and he sighed. "There's always _ways,_ Peter. The problem is, this was the _easy_ way." He held his hands an arm's length apart, one drumstick in each. Nodding to one side to indicate the 'easy way,' he then looked over toward his other hand. "Waaaaay over here is the hard way, which is pretty much _every other way we could possibly come up with._ There's just no middle ground. Not unless someone wants to dump ten grand into our laps."

"What about your parents?" Davy asked quietly. "Or, you know, Jody?"

Micky shook his head. "My parents would help me until they had to sell their own house, and I can't let 'em do that. And Jody's going to college, so she's already in debt, I'm guessin'."

Speaking of, Mike heard a loud, metallic /clunk/ as a black-shirted security guard pushed open and then held the heavy rear access door. He stepped aside, admitting a handful of people, including Micky's sister. As she searched for them, the guard hurried to close the door again.

Mike managed a tired smile, raising his hand, and gave a quick wave so that Jody could find them. As she hurried over, shouldering past other people in the small space, Mike leaned over and warned, "incoming."

Micky barely had a chance to say "Huh?" before Jody threw her arms around him and nearly knocked him right over. As he awkwardly yelped and tried to right himself, Peter caught and steadied them both, from atop his perch.

Once standing, and once Micky seemed to confirm that the person with her arms around him was his sister and not some random stranger, he gave her a quick hug in return.

"What happened, guys?" she asked. "You were amazing! The audience really seemed to like you. I mean, I thought you were the best, but I _might_ be biased…"

"Disqualified," Davy interrupted, crossing his arms.

For a moment, Mike was sure Jody had become a statue, as she stood there with her jaw slack, staring at Davy. Grimly, he inwardly acknowledged that he both loved and hated seeing moments such as these, when a person has just received such a staggeringly impossible piece of news that their response centers completely shut down. Perhaps she was waiting for one of them to say "just kidding!" and conjure some hidden GRAND PRIZE trophy that didn't actually exist. Realizing that Davy spoke truthfully, all she could say was, "What did you do wrong?"

Her confusion turned to pity, and Mike couldn't help the slight curl of his lip. He hated that look, even though, for once, the Monkees might have actually deserved it. Despite not being a conceited person, Michael knew that no other band handled the stage better than the Monkees, and not one other person played with more heart than Micky Dolenz. If they'd actually _messed something up_, he could at least turn his anger inward, but as he went over their setlist over and over in his mind, he always came up with nothing. They broke no rules in the execution of their four song. There wasn't a time limit, so they couldn't have gone over it. And since Micky was a registered member of the band, leading him up on stage to play couldn't have counted against them, either.

Something stunk about the whole thing.

"Maybe we shoulda cut I'm a Believer off early," Davy said. "We could have struck the last verse. I'm thinkin' it must be a time issue."

"No…" Peter said, drawing out the syllable in thought. "No, I'm sure it wasn't that. 'Cuz we weren't timed - Mike said so." As if confirming this as fact, Peter looked to Michael, who nodded.

"Then, maybe they just didn't like us," Davy said. "Hell, I dunno, as far as I'm concerned, we didn't do anything off."

"It's our shirts," Micky said, tugging at his collar. Not a second later, his face fell in confusion, and he asked, "Say, what _am_ I wearing, anyway?"

That question actually did cause Michael to allow a half-smile. Just before they all left, Davy, in executing his grand scheme to get Micky up on stage, switched out the drummer's garish patterned shirt for their red eight-button polo. Sure, it seemed like a bit of a crime to fool Micky in such a way, but the intent was to have them all _match._

…And maybe spare the audience from a very loud article of clothing.

Hearing a commotion over by the stage door, Mike allowed his gaze to wander there, where he immediately saw Felix Macleod trying to worm his way between some of the people hanging out at the bottom of the steps. As Micky, Davy, and Peter continued trying to suss out their costly error, their words became a meaningless pounding in Mike's ears. His vision constricted into a narrow tunnel, concentrating intently on the prey, the prize, the _reason_ for which everyone was searching. His only thoughts turned to attack. Attack, attack, attack.

Without even bothering to discern why Felix even followed them down here, Mike struck, grabbing Felix by the shirt collar and fully lifting him off the floor. Only after slamming him into a cinderblock wall did Mike's senses return enough for him to shout, "_what more do you want from us!?_"

Every single person in the backstage area went silent.

Felix squirmed and kicked his feet, brown eyes wild with something beyond fear. He found Micky, and gasped, "Micky, tell 'im to put me down!"

Mike turned, eyes daring Micky to say something. But the drummer was silent, his arms crossed, scowling.

Encouraged by Micky's anger, and acting on his best friend's behalf, Mike turned back to the Scotsman, trying not to allow a smirk to creep onto his face. After all the hell the Monkees went through, it was about time they got a little payback.

But Peter, ever the calm voice of reason, muttered, "Mike, this isn't like you."

With those five little words, the righteous rage began to leave him, and Michael found himself struggling to hold their betrayer off the floor. Before the surge of adrenaline left him entirely, though, he growled, "It was you. You got us disqualified! How'd you think we'd react if you showed up down here? 'Here's your reward for being a jack-ass! Sorry, we forgot to bring your dozen roses, and I left my congratulations in my other pants.'"

Before his strength left him completely, Mike released Felix, who fell roughly to the floor.

Jody and the four Monkees stared down at him as he rubbed his neck. At least at this point, he had the decency to look properly horrified. Still, Mike couldn't figure out why he was here. To gloat? To deny the whole thing?

He surprised them all by saying, "You couldn't possibly know! Geez, I tried to call ahead, but they'd already started the show…" He picked himself up, brushing himself off. The dust, however, clung to his suit like fresh paint, and his hands only caused the dirt to smudge all the way across the expensive fabric. He chanced a look up into Mike's eyes before continuing. "I _just_ got the go-ahead. There's no _way_ you could know! I mean… I'm starting to think we're on different pages here!"

"Speaking of pages," Micky said, "If you're going to try to rip us apart in the newspaper, you're going to have to try a _lot_ harder. At the risk of soundin' sappy, we're a lot more than just some old band. It'd take a lot more than a couple letters in the paper to keep us off the stage."

"That _was_ a little sappy," Davy asided.

Micky shrugged.

Felix, however, could only shake his head slowly, eyes wide with confusion. "Letters?"

"Letters to the editor! In the damn _Times!_" Mike spat. "Sayin' we were usin' Micky and all. C'mon, you remember! You wrote 'em! Now ain't the time to play dumb."

Out of the corner of his eye, Mike noticed one of the Gargoyles stop mid-stride as he sauntered down the stairs from the stage. Let him hear the argument. So what? Mike couldn't possibly care less who knew what happened.

Mike's temper continued to slowly dissipate, though with every passing moment that Felix looked totally lost. "I didn't write any letters. I mean, not to the paper, anyway. To the head of the department, sure, but those're private. Y'wouldn'ta read 'em."

Now it was everyone else's turn to feel lost. After a shared glance among them, it was Micky who finally spoke up. "Uh, look. Maybe we better start from the beginning. Felix, we were DQ'd up there, after we totally aced an entire set. Best we ever played. I think Tex here's just hoping for some sort of explanation."

"Well…" Felix started, looking away. "The disqualification was my fault. But— " he held up his hands as Mike took a threatening step forward. "Look. Okay. I'm a medical student at UCLA. In order to graduate, I have to do a project. A year-long study. When I met Micky at that restauranty… thingy… uh… It kind of all came together. I wanted to study… Well, the whole blindness, sight-loss, hit-on-the-head thing that you had going on, but I needed a grant to do it. I wrote the proposal to the head of my department."

"You didn't write to the paper?" Mike asked.

"No," Felix replied. "Why would I?"

"Why were they disqualified?" Jody asked.

"'cuz I… I made a mistake. The grant… Look, I requested in the grant that if it was approved… If the board said yes… All of Micky's medical bills from the time of the accident to the end of my study would be covered. And the university considered it a conflict of interest and disqualified you before they even let me ask if you'd do it. I was coming here to tell you, I… I promise. Really. But I couldn't get through to anyone. Not on the phone, they wouldn't let me onto the stage…"

As Mike stared at the young man before them, he tried to put things together in his head. It was hard to re-evaluate all the misconceptions he'd already formed, because his brain still wanted Felix to be the fall-guy. The one they could all blame. But… Then he remembered one very important fact about the contest rules, which he'd read way back before they even started on the long road of competition. The contest was sponsored almost entirely by the UCLA _medical campus._ "It was a study on … music…" Mike stammered.

"Well, it was supposed to be a psychological study. I was taking my psychology elective this semester, so I thought I'd attend the concerts." Felix idly tried to brush more dust off his clothing, without success. "But I saw the opportunity for a grant proposal and took it. It was my second proposal. The first one went down in flames, unfortunately."

Mike didn't really know what to say. He'd spend so much time being angry at the concept of this man writing horrible things about them in the newspaper, that he honestly couldn't reconcile with the fact that Felix was innocent. "So it wasn't you. You didn't write to the paper about how you thought we were using Micky and how we should be disqualified?"

Felix's look of confusion said more than words. Still, he added, "Why would I? The ability for someone to keep functioning without one of their primary senses is fascinating! I mean, my entire thesis is based around that very fact."

"I told you guys it wasn't him," Micky said. He reached out, pawing at the air until he found Mike's sleeve. Winking at the taller man, he pushed him gently aside, before reaching for Felix. Smiling, the Scot reached out and took Micky's hand.

"What did you say?" Micky asked. "About the grant?"

"It would cover all your medical bills, one hundred percent. You'd just have to let me do a study on the cause of your blindness." Felix's other hand grasped Micky's shoulder. "There'd be some tests involved. Nothing dangerous. Any experimental therapy we'd use would be run by you first. It's a unique injury. I just wanted to study it. And write a thesis paper on it, hopefully get it published."

They both stood there for a while in the low light, just staring at each other. Micky appeared to consider this for a moment, then he looked back and said, very quietly, "Mike, I don't think we lost."

"Is that a yes?" Felix asked, hopeful.

The progression of emotion on Micky's face before he eventually nodded threatened to make even Mike cry. The stunned silence was followed by a smile, then the smile broke down into a tearful giddiness, which continued into a strange, relieved laughter.

They didn't win. They wouldn't have their time in the spotlight like they wanted, and maybe the Monkees would go on to fade into obscurity. But the entire point of this thing - the only reason Mike even considered subjecting himself and his friends to the competition, was to try to recoup the costs of their dear drummer's hospital stay. Now, it seemed that their goal was well-met, which meant they could all stop worrying about it. Moreover, they'd been so quietly disqualified that they didn't even have to worry about bruised egos. Arguably, the Monkees won the best prize they could have possibly hoped to achieve.

Even so, Mike thought, as Micky turned away from his benefactor and hugged his sister, it would have been nice to actually get some sort of public win. The recognition would have done them good, and possibly led to a more steady source of income. As he contemplated that, he noticed that the Gargoyles' lead singer was still staring at them, smirking.

That look said so much.

Mike stepped forward and hissed, "It was _you._"

The other man shrugged. "Look, what can I say? All's fair, man. When you're on top, you have to do a few things to keep yourself there. If you would have dropped out of the competition, it would have been easier for us, that's all. No hard feelings."

"You coulda made him stop playin'!" Mike returned.

The other singer merely shrugged.

Though flattered that one of the best amateur bands he'd ever heard play considered the Monkees a threat, Mike still had some unspent anger to unleash. His mind told him it was a bad idea, but his arm apparently wasn't paying attention, because his fist crashed into the Gargoyles' lead with just about as much force as he could muster.

The man staggered backward before falling into the arms of his other bandmates. As Mike shook out the pain in his hand, he growled through his teeth, "Enjoy your victory."

—-

Later, they sat in the same Santa Monica diner where they'd originally met Felix. The med student sat at the end of the booth, nursing a plate of fries and a Coca-Cola. "Honestly, I thought you were gonna kill me, Mike."

"I thought I was, too," Mike replied. He briefly lifted the ice pack off his knuckles, wincing at the bruise slowly spreading across his skin. "Good thing the other Gargoyles thought those letters were a bad idea, 'else I could be spending the night in jail."

"He deserved it," Davy said.

They all looked at Peter, who shrugged. "Usually, I'm all for settling things without, you know. Punches being involved. But with what he said about Micky…"

"I would have done it myself," Jody said, "if Mike hadn't gotten there first."

Micky chuckled, hands working over the table until he located his napkin. He idly started worrying the corners of it, allowing little flecks of paper to fall to the table. "Don't know how I lived without you for all those months," he said, glancing up at her.

"Not to break up this touching moment where we all discuss how much we _all_ woulda liked to have decked the guy," Davy started, "but I'm kinda curious about how all this is gonna work. The grant and all."

"We'll have some papers for Micky to sign," Felix said. "And I'll read 'em all out loud before you do, so you know what you're signing. One of them's a waiver allowing us access to your hospital debt, so we can pay it off. Ideally, we would have been doing one MRI a week, but it took a while to get this all approved."

Still somewhat embarrassed that his usually accurate judge of character failed him, Mike frowned. "Look, Felix. I'm sorry I jumped to conclusions and all. It just seemed awfully suspicious."

"Now that you've explained it, it all seems to fit. Coincidence is a pretty nasty villain."

Mike nodded.

"It woulda been nice to announce the prize on stage. There wasn't enough time to run it past the proper channels, though. Some people thought it'd be unfair - favoritism and all." Felix continued playing with his fries for a moment. "I should have told you what I was planning earlier. I didn't want to get anyone's hopes up, though. I asked for a lot of money for the grant, and the board easily could have said no. So there's really no need to apologize."

As their waitress brought their main courses - which really just consisted of a couple hamburgers and another couple plates of fries - they lapsed into a comfortable, exhausted silence. Mike could honestly say he was pleased that the whole thing worked out, even if he still felt uneasy about the Gargoyles' attack on Micky. It shook their foundation. In the end, though, they pulled themselves together, which they always seemed to accomplish. A brilliant rescue at the eleventh hour.

"Uh, look," Felix said when they were just about finished. He pulled a camera out of his bag, fiddling with the controls. "This is my first grant and all, so when I graduate and get my own office somewhere, I kinda want to have a picture of you guys all framed up next to my diploma."

"I can't guarantee I'll be looking right at the lens," Micky said with a chuckle.

Felix stood, pushing his chair out of the way, and took a few steps back to get everyone in the picture. Jody quickly moved out of the way as the boys posed.

Actually, "posed" wasn't quite right. They goofed off long enough to give Jody time to say, "Hey, you should be in the picture, Felix." She held out her hand. After a moment of thought, he handed over the camera with a quiet thank you, before going to sit back down with the others.

She counted to three.

The flash went off, and it seemed everyone was ready for it, except one.

With a yelp, Micky nearly jumped right out of the booth, rubbing at his eyes. Everyone turned to stare at him, silent, holding their breaths. Mike tentatively set a hand on his friend's shoulder; eventually, Micky slowly dropped his hands from stunned eyes, and stared. He was still obviously sightless, but _maybe…_

"Jo, can you do that again?" he asked.

She didn't even bother to line up a proper shot. After waiting for the flash to charge again, she just pressed the button. Like last time, Micky startled, although not with quite as much enthusiasm.

In a rare moment of speechlessness, all Micky could do was cry. And as the tears began to pour from his eyes, the restaurant filled with the sound of a very happy, very relieved laugh.

**EPILOGUE**

"MICKY! Cut it out!" Davy shouted.

Micky looked up, squinting, as he made out his friend's blurry form at the top of the stairs. "C'mon! It's not every day you start to see _color_ again!" he exclaimed. Turning back to the wall, where swaths of color now streaked across it in a beautifully-confused rainbow, Micky smiled at his handiwork.

His sight returned, at first, with frustrating slowness. In the beginning, days passed where Micky would only be able to see a bright flash of light now and then, which he would report to Felix with increasing despair. After Micky's first scan following the competition, though, the aspiring doctor told him to have heart, for the damage seemed to be relenting.

After the first week, Micky started discerning lights and darks with relative ease. Distinct shadows started to form out of brightness, and pinpoints of light would meander through shadow. The shadows and lights eventually became shapes. And today, those shapes finally resolved into color.

"That's what paper is for!" Davy stomped down the stairs, pulling the crayons out of Micky's hands.

"I _tried_ paper!" Micky returned. "It's just too small. And c'mon, look at all this wall space."

"Oh, he's already drawn all over it," Mike muttered from the living room. "Let 'im keep goin'. We got some mineral spirits in the garage. It'll take all that right off."

"It'll take off the paint, too," Davy muttered. Almost reluctantly, he handed the crayons back. Micky wasted no time in drawing a green line from one corner to another, before putting his face a mere inch from the wall so he could see it. It was so brilliant! So beautiful! And it didn't just feel _good_ to see again, but he couldn't quite describe the euphoria he felt. It went far beyond gladness or relief or joy. Color! Color existed for him again!

"Just keep 'im away from the ceiling," Mike drawled, flipping a page of his magazine.

Through it all, Felix was particularly interested in every single minute detail. At first, Micky feared that the return of his sight would ruin the study and cause him to forfeit the entire grant… On the contrary, though, the recovery had the young med student more excited with each passing day. Though the blindness itself was of interest, the literal light at the end of the tunnel kept the study interesting. Micky answered what he could, and participated in whatever tests were asked of him, despite the fact that he was so distracted by seeing the world around him that he could barely sit still anymore to do anything.

"Where's Peter?" Davy asked, as Micky whirled past him again, this time trailing a handful of all the blues and yellows he could find.

"Buyin' paint," Mike replied, dryly.

He flipped another page, and sighed. "Micky, I just bought this book."

Micky looked over and shrugged. "It wasn't colorful enough. I had to improve it."

"You drew beards on all the girls!"

Squinting, Micky asked, "That's a girl?"

With another sigh, Mike tossed the magazine aside. "Right. Well. I'm gonna go lock up my sheet music before he gets hold o' that, too."

As Micky continued doodling on the walls, a pained shout came from the vicinity of Mike's room. Abruptly turning, Micky handed the crayons to Davy, and, laughing, ran out the front door.


End file.
